


To Serve a Heart of Sovereignty

by ToriCeratops, Zoejoy24



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Assassination Attempt(s), Child Abuse, Espionage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Slow Burn, Torture, Underage is NOT non-con, Violence, are they a character in this show? they're in this fic, underage not explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/pseuds/ToriCeratops, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: All of Milton knows King Martin as a kind and benevolent king. He always has a warm smile and is as generous with his allies as he can be ruthless to his enemies.But at a young age, Prince Malcolm learns the truth about his father's wicked secrets and it haunts him.  As he grows he must learn how to become his own man, must learn that he doesn't need to follow in the dark footsteps of his father to be a great king, and that it helps to have loyal and trusted friends at your side.Aka: The Medieval AU literally no one asked for.See notes for more information on tags
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 162
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Implied/Referenced Underage sexual scenes are all OFF SCREEN and never between Gil and Malcolm. Rape/Non-Con is NOT underage and also not between Gil and Malcolm.**
> 
> Thanks to Kate for the awesome beta!
> 
> Tori: Once upon a time, for a daily Prodigal Son drabble challenge, I wrote one hundred words about a young, blue eyed royal begging his lover - an older, handsome knight - to run away with him. Our friends kept talking about it and then Zoe and I couldn't stop stalking about it. And thus, The Bright Prince was born.
> 
> Zoe: When Tori wrote her Medieval themed drabble I was thrilled. I have always loved AU’s as well as stories set in this time period and the ideas just kept flowing until it became clear that we both loved it a little too much not to write about it. I was worried that Tori would think I was a little strange for being as excited as I was about it, and then she started making maps and coats of arms and I realized I had nothing to worry about. I can’t believe how far this idea has already come in just a week and I am so excited to see where it ends up!

# 

_For weal or woe I will not flee_   
_To love that heart that loveth me._

_That heart my heart hath in such grace_   
_That of two hearts one heart make we;_   
_That heart hath brought my heart in case_   
_To love that heart that loveth me._

_For one the like unto that heart_   
_Never was, nor is, nor never shall be,_   
_Nor never like cause set this apart_   
_To love that heart that loveth me._

_Which cause giveth cause to me and mine_   
_To serve that heart of sovereignty,_   
_And still to sing this latter line:_   
_To love that heart that loveth me._

_Whatever I say, whatever I sing,_   
_Whatever I do, that heart shall see_   
_That I shall serve with heart loving_   
_That loving heart that loveth me._

_This knot thus knit, who shall untwine,_   
_Since we that knit it do agree_   
_To loose not nor slip, but both incline_   
_To love that heart that loveth me?_

_Farewell, of hearts that heart most fine,_   
_Farewell, dear heart, heartly to thee,_   
_And keep this heart of mine for thine_   
_As heart for heart, for loving me._

_-Anonymous Poem C.1500_   
_Modernized in 1935 by Richard Greene_

# 

The rain hasn’t let up for weeks. 

Their crops were in desperate need of it, so he does not begrudge the gods for blessing his kingdom with the gift of life, but it had begun to get rather cold and dreary even inside the dense castle walls. The air was thick with it and even in the deep heart of the castle, in rooms completely isolated from the outside world, you could smell and feel the rain on the air. 

But today, Martin doesn’t hold his cloak as tightly as he has in previous days. The air is still cool, but not drearily so. There’s still a dampness in the air and a clean, earthen scent that only comes from freshly disturbed soil.

Most importantly, on this day of all days, the sun shines on his kingdom, warming the cold stone of the parapet as he inhales deeply and smiles into the rays of light beaming across his face. 

It is a bright and beautiful day, a day befitting the ceremony welcoming his newborn son to the kingdom. 

The king cradles the small, precious bundle in his arms and pokes his son’s tiny button nose before walking to the edge of the battlement. 

His crown sits heavy on his head as always, but today, his heart is light. 

“Good people!” He calls out over the din of the crowd gathered below, giving them a brief moment to settle and for all eyes to be on him, where they belong. “I bring you tidings of great joy on this glorious day. Today, our lovely Queen Jessica, fairest of all who has ever ruled this land, has given birth!” 

There’s a loud roar of cheering and shouts from the courtyard and he smiles down at his people indulgently before sparing another glance at his son. 

“I present to you the newest royal, Prince Malcolm, next in line for the throne of Milton, and your future king!” He lets the world drown in raucous excitement, in shouts and laughter and clapping from below. But he only has eyes for the little bundle in his arms, the tiny babe staring up at him, blue gaze wide and alert as it reflects the scattering of white clouds in the sky and he whispers softly, “...and my boy.” 

Martin had fought and clawed his way to the top of the kingdom of Milton. He came from nothing, the lowest noble in the lowest house. But none of those in position over him could match his intelligence, none were so charismatic or so divisive. Nor could any of his peers be as ruthless as he could be - as a _king_ should be. So here he stands, at the top of the world, holding in his arms the son who would carry on his legacy.

Malcolm is a bright and happy child. The people love him just as dearly as they love their King and Queen. The cooks slip him extra sweets, the maids play hide and seek with him, his tutors let him out of his lessons far more than they should, and when he’s old enough to be taken out into the market the subjects dote on him. He is never without a smile or a laugh, and something to say that is far beyond his years. 

Martin knows his son’s kind spirit and beauty come from his mother. Those traits are all Jessica—the bright star of the Milton royal line. But his intelligence and his quickly budding wit… those are all Martin and his heart swells with pride with each reminder that Malcolm is truly _his_ son. 

Though his son will have dozens of teachers over the years, Martin knows that if Malcolm is to be a successful and powerful king—if he is to carry on Martin’s legacy—then the boy must learn more from his father than anyone else. He must learn not only how to rule, but how to play the game—how to win hearts and sway minds. 

He must also learn the art of sacrifice, must learn to recognize when to give up a lesser piece on the chessboard so that the more important ones may remain safe. He must learn to hide his true intentions, then strike when least expected. 

The lessons begin with a childlike simplicity. When Malcolm cries after seeing a deer being dressed in the castle yard Martin seizes the opportunity to explain the way of nature, the necessity of creating order from chaos. He teaches the boy that sometimes there must be death in order to allow new life to grow, to thrive.

When he is three, the young prince wants nothing more than to be at his father’s side day and night. Martin indulges him for the most part. He lets him sit on his mother’s silk covered lap in court—as long as he behaves (he always does), or sets him on his own knee while reading normally dull treaties to him as if they’re exciting tales. He even has a room set up to allow Malcolm to listen in on council meetings occasionally, always with a trusted guard keeping watch. 

Shortly after Malcolm’s fifth birthday Princess Ainsley is born. From the moment he meets her, Malcolm is a kind and doting older brother. He is constantly preoccupied with how his little sister is doing, always inquiring after her status—where she is, who is with her, who is protecting her—endearing him to the hearts of the people even more. For some time Ainsley is all he will talk about, chattering ceaselessly about her when he is wandering through the market with his nurse and the guards. 

Their kingdom flourishes. 

For years there are rich, bountiful harvests, the kingdom’s storehouses and vaults are overflowing. Milton’s conflicts with surrounding kingdoms become quiet and any clashes that do occur are quickly resolved. There is no sickness, no strife that plagues the people of Milton, and everyone sings the praises of the King and Queen while their nobles gladly pledge their fealty and service year after year. 

Though Jessica maintains her title of Queen of the Realm, she relinquishes more and more control to her husband until she’s put nearly every ounce of her power into Martin’s hands as she realizes how much prosperity his rule has brought to her people and the kingdom of Milton. She becomes a figurehead at best, beautiful and poised, the pride and joy of her people. Her arrangement with her husband suits the young Queen perfectly as she would rather plan a harvest feast than count the ears of corn in their stores. When things do go poorly, when Martin must act swiftly, even ruthlessly to protect their kingdom—and their status quo—Jessica simply smiles and reminds him of when the next dance will be. Such things are not her concern and she is all too happy to wash her hands of the matters of court. 

It’s a good arrangement and beneficial for all. Or so it seems. 

Malcolm is eight the first time Martin shows him the secret passage that leads to the king’s private study.

None of his counselors or noblemen, not even the chancellor, know of the room’s existence, only Martin himself, his left-hand man, and now Malcolm.

“Listen carefully, my boy. If you wish to go through these doors with me you must swear to me, right now, on everything you hold dear, that you will never tell _anyone_ of its existence. Not your mother, or your sister. No one. Can you do that for me, Malcolm?” 

He kneels in front of his boy, speaking softly but with no small amount of conviction. This is where his most difficult decisions are made and he does not bring the young prince in lightly. But he trusts his boy and has faith that Malcolm has learned enough, that he’s ready to take his next step into the world of what ruling will truly look like for him one day.

“Of course, I swear it, father! No one will ever know,” Malcolm promises. He looks up at his father, eyes shining with all the excitement and love a boy could ever feel and reflecting the light pouring in from the small window, looking bluer than ever.

“That’s my good boy,” Martin beams as he ruffles the prince’s soft auburn curls. He turns him gently around by the shoulders and guides him forward. “Are you ready?”

For a moment Malcolm is silent then he looks back at Martin with a frown. “There’s no key hole. How do you keep it secure?”

“Why don’t you tell me. You’re very smart, my boy. You’ll figure it out.” 

Martin watches intently as Malcolm’s attention narrows down on the small latch on the door which is secured by a lock the king had had commissioned especially for this room. 

The lock has no keys and no one could ever pick it. If anyone wanted to enter his study without his knowledge they would have to break down the door to get through, and it is far too sturdy for that. Instead of a key, there are four dials with numbers on them. The dials twist and turn in both directions, and there is no indicator of where they must line up or how in order to free the latch and unlock the door. 

Malcolm is clearly fascinated by the lock. He fiddles with the top most dial, then the second. At first he seems to be looking for something, searching the door and the dials for a clue. But then, to Martin’s absolute delight, he leans in and presses his ear against the device and _listens_ as he moves pieces. 

This is exactly what Martin was hoping for, what he is always so excited to see. His boy is intelligent, yes. But he doesn’t just _know_ things, he _understands_. Even at his young age, when Malcolm encounters a problem, he knows that there isn’t just one way of solving it. 

Obviously, the boy could just ask—Martin had brought him here with promises that he would see inside the study, after all. But when Malcolm’s eyes hadn’t immediately revealed the solution to his problem, he had instinctually engaged his other senses as well, determined to solve the puzzle himself. Martin is on cloud nine as he watches his son break the puzzle down piece by piece. 

Suddenly, Malcolm’s fingers on the dials slow and he draws away from the door. His eyes light up when he looks up at Martin, bright with joy, as if Martin has given him some great gift. 

“It’s mechanical, of course,” he begins, speaking slowly but clearly. “But… there’s a particular way you have to turn the dial. And you can’t do it out of order, or whatever is inside doesn’t line up right!”

Martin’s chest is so full of pride he feels like it may burst. “Exactly right! Excellent deductive skills, my boy.” 

He takes the lock in hand and slowly twists each dial around in the pattern required to open it, letting Malcolm listen closely for the small clicks as each tumbler slides into place. 

“Five. Two. Eight. Nine. Full turn left, two turns right, two turns left, full turn right. Do you think you can remember that?” 

“Five, two, eight, nine,” he repeats, “one, two, two, one.” Malcolm arcs his finger back and forth in the appropriate direction for each number of rotations, and Martin ruffles his hair, beaming down as his brilliant, beautiful boy. 

Then, he pulls the now open lock free, and swings the door open.

_This_ is his favorite room in all of the castle. It’s large, round, and airy, with high ceilings and tall windows set into one of the curved walls. It’s a hidden room, located in one of the castle’s towers, tucked within the curve of the stairs that leads up to the guard post, and only accessible through a tunnel leading under the battlement which is attached to the tower. 

Malcolm stands still in obvious awe as he takes in the room.

Shelves line the walls. On the side with the two windows—so the sun doesn’t bleach and fade their bindings—the shelves are full of books and journals that Martin has collected over the years, some from when he was only a child himself. Many of the books are important readings on the study of economies and battle tactics, of course. But more important in Martin’s mind are those on dangerous plants and poisons. Several of the books are full of his own research notes, taken from lessons and experiments he’d begun with Simon, his court physician. Lately, though, he’s been branching out, and more and more of the notes as of late are from his own...studies. 

Next to these books are several well-bound journals, each with a single letter pressed into the spine representing one of the nine kingdoms. Well, there _were_ ten kingdoms. But Martin has already taken care of one of them. 

Once Malcolm is done taking in the rows and rows of books, his attention continues along the walls, falling on shelves littered with vials containing a varied collection of plants and liquids. There are hundreds of them, some common enough that even Malcolm can recognize them and some that are much more rare. Some of the vials contain materials Martin had been forced to sacrifice quite a few… _valuables…_ to obtain. 

Beyond the shelves full of vials is a map of the continent. It’s taller than Malcolm and takes up a large swath of the stone wall. 

“Why is there writing on the borders?” Malcolm asks, holding a finger up to the red line that separates Milton from Ceron. 

There are notes on all the borders, including the one to the east of Milton that doesn’t exist any longer. They’re written in Martin’s own personally created code, and while he’s ready to bring Malcolm into his study he’s not yet interested in divulging all of his secrets to an eight year old. 

“That’s just some silly doodling I did when I was younger, my boy. Pay it no mind.” He scoops Malcolm up in his arms, holds him close so that he can reach the whole of the map. “Now, can you point out all of the kingdoms on the map, and tell me something about them?”

Malcolm nods eagerly and points to the southeast corner of the map. “This is us: Milton! To our east is the Sina Bay, and on the other side of that is the Duchy of Caid.”

Malcolm points out each feature as he names it, studiously reciting his well learned lessons in not only geography but also political relations. Martin can’t contain his wide smile as Malcolm continues to speak.

“Caid was its own sovereign kingdom until Milton defeated it. Now, it’s ruled by Duke Blanchard, under our control.” 

Which is one of Martin’s biggest regrets. He had been a young king, mistakenly believing that letting the Duchy maintain some independent power would be easier for him, that it would be fine in the long run. Now he realizes his error, sees that he could have pushed harder, kept it all for himself, completely under his own control. But, the Duke just had a daughter of his own, and there’s time to make up for his mistakes. 

Malcolm continues on, finger tracing along the Pelagus River. 

“Ceron,” he points, starting at the mouth of the river and the southernmost kingdom that borders it. “They control the mouth of the River Pelagus, due to their massive naval forces. Then, there’s Portaleen, Meridies, and Roslin. Large kingdoms by land mass, but small by population.” He punctuates each name with a jab of his finger against the map, then slides his finger over the mountain ranges and rivers till it rests over the Northeast corner of the continent. 

“North of Milton is Trent, across the mountains. Their mining makes them wealthy, and even though it’s too cold for a widespread or long growing season, their coin typically keeps their food resources flowing well enough. Last is Avacal, on the peninsula. They’ve been weakened ever since a typhoon wiped out their naval fleet a….decade ago? And they haven’t recovered fully since. And then Atlantia and North Shield which are mountainous and I don’t know much else about them,” Malcolm concludes, turning back to Martin with an uncertain grin on his face, carefully gauging his father’s reaction.

Martin is so incredibly proud of his boy. Malcolm had done better than Martin could ever have anticipated.

When he says as much, Malcolm absolutely beams at him, quickly offering up even more information on the kingdoms that he knows well, which Martin listens to eagerly. 

They continue their tour of the rest of the study. When Malcolm inquires about several of the medical tools Martin keeps there, and the anatomical drawings he’s made over the years, Martin gives him the barest minimum of information, steering the conversation to more pleasant topics for the most part. 

As they’re going through some of the more detailed maps on his desk, Malcolm pauses over one in particular, an older version from the days when Milton was at war with Caid. 

“Father?”

“Yes, my boy?”

“Why did we have to fight the kingdom of Caid?” 

Martin contemplates the best way to answer for a moment, then sighs. “Fighting is never an easy or pleasant decision to make. But sometimes, it is necessary.” 

Malcolm considers his words for a moment, small face wrinkled in concentration. “Charmichael told me that they were aggressive towards us, but many of the texts I’ve found in the library state we had a long lasting peace,” he says slowly, giving each word careful consideration. “When things started getting bad, why didn’t we just try to befriend them again?” 

Martin thanks the gods once more that Charmichael is a good tutor, diligent, and a man who also toes the party line when it comes to educating Malcolm about Milton’s history - even the recent events that most adults had lived through, but the newest generation must still learn the truth about. Well, Milton’s version of the truth, anyway. 

Martin has always known his kind and gentle son would need to learn the truth about the darker side of ruling one day. He might as well start the boy’s introduction to some of those harsh realities now. He crouches beside his son, placing a hand on each small shoulder and looking him in the eye, his manner serious and solemn.

“Sometimes, the only way to ensure that no one bothers you is a show of strength and capability. If I had let Caid come and take what they wanted from Milton, how soon do you think it would have been before another kingdom tried to do the same? By bringing Caid under our control, the other kingdoms see it’s best not to trifle with us. They see that we are strong, and can hold our own against any invaders or trouble makers. Do you understand?”

When Malcolm frowns, seemingly unwilling to accept his answer right away, Martin presses on, trying a new approach. “Have you ever seen any younger children being picked on or bullied by the bigger boys when you’re out playing with your friends?”

Malcolm nods easily. “Sometimes, yeah.”

“And what do you do about it?” Martin asks, knowing already that his young son is too noble to let such behaviour go on for long.

“I put an end to it,” Malcolm answers immediately, as if it’s the most obvious response in the world. “I tell the bully to back off.”

“And they do, right?” When Malcolm nods again Martin grins knowingly. “And they don’t usually mess with those children again, isn’t that so?”

“Right,” Malcolm says slowly, as if he’s not quite sure that’s the correct answer. 

“That’s because those bullies know that you’re the prince.” He pokes Malcolm lightly in the chest with a soft smile. “They know that you’re powerful, and you shouldn’t be messed with, and that by extension, those children who fall under your protection shouldn’t be bothered either. Do you understand now?”

“I think I understand what you’re _saying_ but, I still usually make friends with them afterwards.”

Martin can already tell this lesson is going to take time and patience on his part. He hopes he hasn’t started too late, and that his boy isn’t already too soft or caring to do what Martin knows will be necessary someday. 

But, the king has ways of ensuring that things go according to his plans, and he is already thinking of the things he can do, further steps he can take, errands to send the prince on, people to meet, all to make sure that Malcolm becomes the man Martin needs him to be. 

“That’s because you have a kind heart, my boy. But one day, you’ll see. Power is what truly matters. Power protects us all.”

# 


	2. Chapter 2

# 

Laughter echoes through the stone halls of the castle. 

He can hear his pursuers catching up to him, carefully judging their distance by the lingering sounds of their laughter coupled with their quick footfalls. As they approach he inhales slowly, and holds his breath, waiting. 

More laughter.

Whispering.

Running.

The moment Malcolm knows they’ve passed his hiding spot he throws the tapestry out wide and shouts into the open air. 

“Ah ha! You fools! You will never catch the Dreaded Donovan!” he exclaims triumphantly, then waits to hear another peal of giggles before he turns and bolts back in the opposite direction. 

He’s too busy looking over his shoulder to make sure they’ve caught on to him to pay attention to where he’s going, and he runs right into a solid wall of purple silk.

“Malcolm!”

He catches himself before falling over and looks up, astonished and suddenly frightened. “Mother!”

The Queen is in a wide necked, deep purple dress with gold trim around the collar and the hems of her sleeves. An intricate gold belt is draped around her waist, and green gems adorn her long, pale neck. She looks as regal as always, and furious.

“Your Majesty!” A chorus of young children exclaim from right behind him. 

He doesn’t even have to look to know they have all fallen into respectful bows and curtseys. The queen looks shocked, but beside her, her lady in waiting -- Kimberly -- is hiding a giggle behind her hand. 

“Kimberly,” Jessica says with an exaggerated smile, “will you please see these dear children off to wherever it is they should be this time of day, while I discuss with the young prince here why it is he sees the need to be running around our halls at his age?”

Malcolm knows better than to argue in the face of her displeasure. But he’s only nine and there are two children behind him who are even a few months older than he is.  _ They  _ aren’t likely to hear a word about their behaviour being inappropriate, and it's frustrating! It's always frustrating—the way he’s expected to be different, to somehow be better than everyone else. 

Once they’re alone, his mother gestures with a small wave of her hand and begins walking again. Malcolm dutifully falls in to step at her side. Thankfully, she walks slower than she normally would so he doesn’t have to double step to keep up.

“Darling, what were you thinking?”

He sighs. “Sir Caillin let us go a little early today. None of us wanted to return to our chores early so we decided to keep training.”

"Training? That's no excuse for running in the halls like a heathen!" she exclaims, affronted. 

Though his father—not being of royal birth, barely even a noble—is usually more lenient with Malcolm's behavior, his mother is a stickler for rules and decorum. It isn’t uncommon for her to scold him for the smallest of slights, or on more than one occasion for poor posture or less than noble bearing when no one else is around. He’s sick of it.

"But, as knights, they will need to be able to track their quarry, and either outrun them or outsmart them," he explains to her. Calmly, he thinks, knowing better than to yell.

The queen scoffs. “What do you know of being a knight? You’re just a boy, Malcolm, a boy barely into his training as a page.”

Malcolm frowns. He knows plenty of being a knight; from watching them train and fight and listening to his father, and from his own reading in his father’s private study. But he dare not contradict his mother again. 

Clearly, she isn't expecting an answer and she continues on. 

"Leave the training to those who are assigned to train you. That is their job.  _ Your  _ job is to be a leader, to set an example for others to follow. Which means your behavior  _ must  _ be above reproach. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mother,” he replies quietly, and his nod is deep enough to be a small bow. 

They continue on in silence for a few moments longer. When they arrive at the doors to the queen’s chambers Jessica stops just outside, pausing before opening them. She turns to Malcolm and rests a gentle hand on top of his curls. 

"Now, don't you have some place important you should be?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

He doesn't, at least not for another hour or so, but he does know where he can go to stay out of the way—out of sight, and more importantly out of trouble. 

"Yes, mother."

Life in the castle isn’t exactly difficult, and for the most part Malcolm enjoys it. The double standards have always been there but it seems they’ve become more strict, as of late. He’s more likely to be disciplined for things other children are still getting away with, more likely to be expected to do better, to be better. It’s not that he minds so much, and he never complains when he’s corrected, Malcolm just wishes someone had told him when it was supposed to change, when he was supposed to go from playing with his friends to being a proper and respectable prince. 

Though he isn’t supposed to be in his father’s private study alone, the king is away touring with a company of nobles and won’t be back for another week or so. So Malcolm goes to the one place he knows without a doubt he won’t be disturbed or found until it is time for him to attend his evening studies. 

The hall to the secret passage that leads to his father’s study is hardly ever traveled, occasionally by the regular guard rotation, and only frequently in times of trouble. He doesn’t pass a single soul as he walks along the hall, slipping unseen into the small space where the false wall opens up, making his way into the study without issue. 

This is where he always finds his peace, where he and his father can talk and giggle and learn as if they were simply a man and his son, not a king and his heir. Here there are no other teachers or tutors, no other court nobles who have high expectations of him. 

Malcolm sits in the plush chair behind his father’s desk and pulls out the treaties they were going over just before the king had left last. They’re old documents, copies of originals that are kept on official record in the archives. Most are from before Jessica and Martin’s reign, one or two are even from before the time of his grandfather. 

There are even scrapped copies of treaties that had never been signed, notes and arguments in margins from kings and ambassadors. There’s even some choice language that Malcolm would be scolded for using in any company, let alone in front of other dignitaries. He enjoys looking through the drafts the most, seeing where concessions were made and where one kingdom or another stood firm. With his father’s help, he’s been able to imagine what those council meetings looked like, what sort of back and forth debate took place over the table that never made it to the papers in front of him. 

‘Power protects us all,’ Martin has said, many times. 

Malcolm can now see where the true power lay in every single treaty he reads, who held all the cards and who was forced to fold. It fascinates him as he pours over the words. 

Beneath the stack of treaties he finds a slim journal that he’s never seen before. It’s bound in dark, blood red leather and clamped shut with a burnished bronze lock, and Malcolm is already dying to see what’s hidden inside. 

He doubts his father leaves the key to such a thing in his study, but he searches the drawers nonetheless. When, as expected, he finds nothing, he takes a closer look at the lock itself. It’s a simple enough thing, not a true pin tumbler lock but rather a mere spring. A thin piece of something jammed inside should do the trick... 

A few minutes later he’s finally opening the supple leather cover, grinning widely at his own success.

A moment later his smile has vanished. 

Malcolm is used to his father’s anatomical drawings. The king is fascinated by the human body and in the limited time he has to himself he works closely with the court physician, Simon, to learn more about his trade. But these drawings are not like what Malcolm has seen pinned to the wall, studies of bones or muscles. 

No.

These are studies of death.

Gruesome deaths. 

There are drawings of people suffering from various lacerations along with notes for placement and depth and time it took from first cut until death. 

There are details of burns of various intensities and locations. 

Notes on pain as reported by those being…studied, and more notations of the time it took for them to die. 

Malcolm would expect that his father’s notes from studying patients with Simon would contain information about healing these injuries, notes on sutures, on stopping the bleeding or helping the pain. But there is nothing of the sort, no comments in the margins on how to prevent death, only musings in his father's familiar hand writing on how to make it faster.

Or more painful.

After the first few pages, Malcolm feels that he should slam the journal shut, that he should put the book back exactly where it came from and leave the study and never return, with or without his father. But he continues on, a strange sense of dread pushing him to read further, to continue his examination.

Page by terrifying page.

His fascination with his father’s study over the last year since he’d first been brought here has been one of awe, both of what lies within the walls of the room and of his father. Now, his fascination has changed into a desperate need to understand what, exactly, the king may be looking to learn and what it is he intends to do with the knowledge that he gains. 

When he reaches the last page Malcolm realizes that his hands are trembling uncontrollably and his heart is beating wildly in his chest. 

Maybe he is mistaken. 

Maybe this isn’t his father’s work. 

Surely, the kind king with the soft smile and patient devotion to his son, to his family, his people, could not be capable of something like this? 

‘Power protects us all.’ His father’s voice echoes in his head.

Is this what he means by power? The power over the life and death of others? 

Did he kill these people he studied? Did he and Simon do this together? 

There has to be an explanation, some critical piece of information he is missing. But it’s not like he can just ask. Malcolm isn’t supposed to be here, is  _ never _ supposed to step foot near this study without his father present. 

With his hands still shaking, Malcolm closes the journal and replaces the lock, setting each treaty back on top in the exact order he had found them in. 

He may not be able to ask, but Malcolm has learned over the years how to observe, how to  _ listen _ . 

It’s time he keeps his eyes open just a little wider to what is going on around him. 

# 

Something has changed in his boy.

Martin notices quickly that Malcolm has become quieter at times, and that he is suddenly much more behaved than he has been. He wishes he could pinpoint when the transformation happened, but no one else is complaining about it, especially Jessica. She seems elated that Malcolm is suddenly capable of remembering his manners on his own, and being polite and princely around everyone at all times, not just when reprimanded. 

Though Malcolm is more subdued than he once was he’s lost none of his fire for life or his passion for learning, for observing. Martin can see that Malcolm is just as attentive as he’s always been, maybe even more so. There’s a spark in his bright blue eyes and they seem sharper than before as he watches his surroundings, clearly intent not to miss a single detail. 

Besides, it isn’t like the boy never speaks. Malcolm is still a verbose child when you get him going, it’s just more difficult of late for Martin to get him started.

He’s altered his methods some, drawing the young prince into more and more of the courtly activities, ensuring Malcolm is present at more and more functions that Martin is expected to attend. 

The largest change he’s made, and the one that seems to make the most difference, is allowing the young prince to finally sit in on the king’s council meetings after his tenth birthday. Malcolm nearly bounces his way through the whole week after Martin tells him the news, becoming a nervous bundle of energy in anticipation of finally being able to be  _ in the room  _ rather than covertly listening to the proceedings from the outside. It’s a huge honor, one that Martin does not bestow lightly.

Malcolm is the perfect attendant for months. He sits quietly and listens carefully, paying close attention to the way Martin and the Council members interact, how the noblemen are expected to respect their king but still offer their own varied opinions. It is a delicate balance with Martin expecting honesty and occasionally welcoming contrasting feedback, while the noblemen know they are ultimately required to bend to the will of the crown. 

Martin sits at the head of the large table, with an empty seat on his left always left for Jessica should she ever actually feel like playing Queen of the Realm for a day. Malcolm maintains a space in a seat specifically brought in for him against the wall within line of sight of the king. Normally, it is only the council around the table that are allowed in this room when they are convened. But, as King, Martin is allowed a few exceptions.

Any exception he wants, really. Which is why he became king in the first place, after all. 

“The current treaty with Roslin is lacking, unfortunately.” Martin lays out the half a century old document on the heavy wood table in front of him, placing a few weights at either end to keep it from rolling up. “We made too many concessions under the former rulers of both kingdoms and with this new, extremely youthful king we may be able to force their hand a little harder than we could in the past. He is, after-all, barely out of his teens. I daresay it won’t be a very difficult feat. Word is he’s being puppeted by two of his advisors and I know both of them are easily manipulated.” 

There’s a soft roll of laughter from around the table. Most of the men and women here remember Lord Saulo and Sir Estime from their visit with the previous king. It’s not that each one on their own is able to be swayed, it’s that they hate each other so much, a simple nudge that something will anger the other can get you almost anything you want. Not that they’re pushovers, Martin just typically knows what to nudge them with. 

And if his old methods don’t work, he’s always got newer, more painful ones he’s discovered since their last visit. 

“Your Majesty?” 

The whole room falls silent as Prince Malcolm speaks up while the doors are closed for the first time in almost eleven months. Martin blinks for a moment in shock before looking at his son with a small, almost disbelieving smile. 

“What is it, my boy?”

“I’ve studied the drafts of that treaty, and some of the court documents from around the time. The kingdom of Roslin gave up much more than Milton, and their economy is far worse now than it was when it was signed.”

The silence in the room when he pauses is nearly deafening, every brow around the table raised high in surprise while Martin fights to maintain a cool and collected demeanor. 

Malcolm, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice and sits up a little straighter as if being allowed to have the floor has given him more confidence to continue. 

“Would it not be more beneficial for them to simply re-affirm the current agreements as they intend to do upon arrival? Unless we plan to leave them destitute, any alterations would likely decrease the benefit to our kingdom.”

The second several of the counselors go from looking astonished that the prince would dare speak up just to correct his father to looking like Malcolm may have a point, Martin knows he must curb this behavior at once. 

"You know I think we've cut into lunch time quite enough for today," Martin says with an easy smile on his face. He looks over the council members and gives them a small nod. "Why don't we break for now and we'll pick this topic up first thing tomorrow morning? We still have some time before the delegation from Roslin arrives and we have to make decisions."

He waits until all the council members have filed out of the room and asks the guard to step outside and close the door. When he looks to Malcolm who has not moved from his seat along the wall he expects to either see him excited to have finally worked up the nerve to speak up, or worried at any possible repercussions. What he does not expect to see is his son looking more cool and collected than Martin has ever seen him. He would be proud if he weren't currently infuriated.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Martin begins in a low but dangerous tone.

Surprising him yet again, Malcolm doesn't even react. "I thought the point of a council was to ensure that you had all the most accurate and up-to-date information. You read those treaties to me. You showed me how to read between the lines."

"You are not a member of this council. You are a child. What you have done is contradict me in front of others, contradict your king." Martin is incensed, pointing at the boy to punctuate his words.

Malcolm, however, doesn’t back down. "But if you renegotiate this treaty asking for more of the Roslins, especially when we already have the upper hand, and they give it to you, they will be worse off than they are now."

"Roslin is not my responsibility,” Martin nearly shouts. “Milton is. As King, it is my job to ensure our people are cared for, provided for, and protected." 

"At the expense of other people?" Finally, his son shows something more than a willingness to argue. He looks shocked, with maybe even a hint of disappointment in his gaze. But he must learn that this is the price of ruling, that their people come first, above all else. 

"Yes! If it comes down to it, absolutely."

"But, father…"

"In this room, I am not your father. I am your king. And if you ever  _ dare _ to speak out against me again you will be barred from these council chambers and severely punished. Do I make myself clear?"

Malcolm stands with a slow nod. “Perfectly, Your Majesty.” He looks as if he’s come to some sort of conclusion, some decision maybe, and isn’t happy about it. Then he turns, and walks calmly from the room. 

As his son disappears through the large council chamber doors, Martin slams his fist down on the table, wondering just who had the upper hand in that conversation. 

# 


	3. Chapter 3

# 

For a time, things seem to even out between them. Malcolm laughs again, speaks with Martin more freely and openly. It's as if whatever decision he had come to in that council chamber allowed him to accept something with which he’d been struggling. 

Martin continues to teach him, to train him in the ways of ruling a kingdom. Their interactions aren’t the same as they were before--Malcolm is not as open with his  _ affections,  _ but they are still there. Martin does not delude himself into thinking that things will ever be the way they were before, when Malcolm still had that bright-eyed, childlike innocence. But, he still has his boy, and for now that is all that matters.

# 

Martin storms through the castle, the fire in his steps raging harder than the wind that wails outside. 

It is no one’s fault but the gods that his trip has been cut short by such weather. That he can’t make it to Theron in time to get accurate information on the work he’s doing there. 

Worse still, that the rain might make all his efforts over the past year worthless anyway. 

So he rages--at the weather, at the gods, at the things he has no control over. 

Control is his life. Control over people, over the kingdom. Every piece of his life is carefully cared for and curated in a way that keeps him clear headed and able to continue moving forward. When one, tiny little link in the chain snaps he has a tendency to rage and explode at the nearest object. Usually his knights. But they are used to it, and loyal to their King no matter what. 

Today, he heads for his private study, needing to get what notes he was able to gather on this trip into a locked and safe location before he does anything else.

He also needs to check on his most recent experiment. 

She should still be alive. He’d left enough water and bread with her to last a bit longer than his scheduled absence. 

When he gets to the end of the secret passage and finds the door to his study ajar Martin freezes. 

Carefully, he draws his sword. Martin has always been more of an educated man than a swordsmith, but if he catches his intruder unaware his skill won’t matter as long as he strikes first. 

Martin barely breathes as he toes quietly forward, listening intently for any noises from within the room. He doesn’t hear any frantic rustling or the tell tale sound of someone digging in his shelves or the drawers of his desk. The only sound he can pick up at all is quick but light, frantic breathing.

When he pushes the door wider and finally steps through he’s shocked to find the room empty at first glance. But the sound is still there and he moves in further, and freezes.

His trap door - usually well covered by a thick, ornate rug - is propped open. Kneeling, and peering down motionless into the dark abyss is a small, pale figure with soft brown curly hair.

And when he finally looks up glassy, bright blue eyes pierce through the king. 

Martin’s sword clatters and echoes against the high, cold stone walls as it falls to the ground. 

“Father?” 

No.

No, this is all wrong. 

Malcolm should never look at him with such fear, such terror in his gaze. He loves Martin, worships him. But now, all of that is ruined, shattered by the tears beginning to stream down his son’s face. 

Martin is terrified. 

Martin is furious.

He has to think fast. He can fix this. 

When Malcolm looks back down into the chamber below Martin scans his shelves and immediately spots the vial he needs, snatching it up as he tears a scrap of cloth from his belt. It’s an old favor from the queen, from their courting days, that he is never without. 

“Who is she? What are you doing to her?”

Before Malcolm can turn around and stab Martin with those piercing blue eyes again the king grabs his son and presses the cloth--now soaked in a potent potion that will knock out grown men--against the young boy's nose and mouth. Malcolm kicks out and struggles, letting out a muffled but high pitched scream and catching Martin in the shin with his boot. But that’s as much as he gets before he goes limp in the king’s arms. 

Immediately Martin tosses the cloth into a far corner and lays the prince out on the ground, making sure he’s still breathing, he’s still alive.

Then, he lets himself panic.

He slams the trap door shut, tossing the rug back over it without much care for either its occupant or the state of the rug. Then he lowers himself to the floor and stares at the prone form of his son, breathing shallowly after being poisoned by his own father. Martin is furious, a boiling rage in the pit of his stomach that Malcolm would disobey him like this, would force Martin to take such drastic actions by being where he knows he is not allowed. 

How long had he been there? What exactly had he seen? Obviously he’d seen the girl, but had he been able to tell what conditions she’s being kept in? What her state of mind was? Is she even awake right now?

She must be, or she was. Martin keeps furniture on the corners of the heavy rug to keep it from being accidentally moved about which means Malcolm heard something and went looking. 

Damn his inquisitive mind.

Malcolm had looked far too terrified for this to not be the first time he’d found her, however. Which is one good thing. He hasn’t had a chance to say anything to anyone.

Yet.

Though Martin knows that no one would  _ initially  _ believe him if Malcolm had started off saying the king was keeping someone chained up in a dark secret room, the prince had started to become more comfortable in using his authority to command those around him. He could have easily gotten a knight in here, someone who he trusts well enough.

Thank the  _ gods _ Martin’s trip was cut short early.

Now, he has a decision to make. 

This could ruin him. It’s already guaranteed to ruin his relationship with Malcolm. The boy will never trust him again, not as soft as he can still be despite Martin’s best efforts. 

He has to do something that will silence the boy. Sending him away won’t work. He could still talk, still find a way to get this kind of information in the wrong hands.

A plan starts to form in his mind. He hates it as much as he knows it may be the only option. But a king must be decisive, and sacrifices must sometimes be made.

There’s always Ainsley.

Martin scoops up the unusually light form of his son into his arms, cradling him close to the chest, and makes his way towards the Physician's chambers. 

Simon is pouring over several documents at his desk when Martin arrives and is on his feet in an instant. “Your Majesty!” 

Martin places the prince on a bed at the far side of the large chamber then moves to the other side so that Simon can have plenty of room to make his examination. 

“Oleander extract,” Martin explains quietly.

The redheaded physician jerks back in shock, staring at his king with wide eyes. “Are you insane?” He bites out. “That can kill a grown…”

“Simon!” Martin is in no mood to be questioned, even by an old friend, and since the poison hasn’t killed him already, he needs to make sure Malcolm’s seen being taken care of. If something were to happen to him, it needs to be clear who is  _ not  _ to blame. 

“Take care of my boy. As of right this moment this is a head injury. I found him on the upper floor of the East Wing. He was probably playing on the battlements and slipped coming back through the halls due to his wet boots.” He leans in close, keeping direct eye contact and making sure Simon understands exactly how deadly serious he is about this. “Do you understand?”

“Completely, sire.” The Physician nods gravely before leaning down to listen to Malcolm’s breathing. 

Apparently, he makes his point not a moment too soon.

The door to the chamber is thrown open, revealing a harried looking queen with the young princess clutching to her billowing blue skirts, Kimberly and a knight at her heels. 

“Martin!”

He curses before turning to look at his wife while plastering on his best reassuring smile. “Jessica, what are you doing here?”

“Sir Owen saw you carrying our unconscious son to the physician's chambers and came to fetch me immediately. What happened?”

“It’s just a little bump to the head darling, absolutely nothing to worry about.” He reaches for her, to comfort her, but she steps out of his arms and around to throw herself onto a stool at Malcolm’s bedside, running her fingers through his curls and clutching at his hand. Martin closes his eyes for a moment and swallows heavily.

When she touches him Malcolm groans, which is more of a response than he’s given this entire time, and not a good sign for Martin. 

“Jessica, darling, you know he’s in perfectly capable hands here and probably just needs to sleep it off. Come now, don’t you have things you should be taking care of?”

“Of course I do, but he is more important.” She doesn’t even look at Martin when she speaks, letting little Ainsley up into her lap so the six year old can dote over her big brother as well. 

That’s just not going to do at all. “Jessica, really now, don’t you think…”

“Martin.” The queen does look up at him then, a sense of overbearing protection in her eyes that she only gets for her children. “I’m staying. Kimberly will see to it that my schedule is rearranged and any necessary apologies made.”

Unfortunately, there’s nothing he can say to that. The crown is technically hers--her people, her throne--so she’s the only one in the entire kingdom that doesn’t have to obey him.

Once she’s looking away again, Martin bites his lips and sighs. He turns towards Simon before leaving. “Make sure he gets  _ plenty  _ of rest. Is that understood?”

“Of course,” Simon bows, hiding his smirk. “Your majesty.”

Outside of the room Martin holds his hand to his mouth to keep from yelling out a curse. This is not good. This is very much not good. But for now, he has to keep moving forward, making plans, and hoping that Simon can keep the prince under long enough that his mother will be asleep before he finally wakes. 

“Sir Owen.” Martin nods to the knight that had accompanied the Queen as he bows for his king.

“Your majesty?” 

“It’s time to take the young prince out on his first hunt. I think it will be a nice surprise once he’s recovered from this. Gather a few of the knights and plan to set out once this rain finally clears and the prince is awake.” 

The knight bows low. “Right away, sire.”

Before he turns to leave Martin calls out as if having forgotten something, though he knows exactly what he needs to do. “Oh, and fetch me Paul. Tell him to meet me in my chambers.”

“Lazar?” Shannon’s gravelly voice rises slightly in pitch, unafraid as always to make sure he understands his orders even if they make no sense. What would the king need with a simple minded laundry assistant anyway? 

“Now, Owen.”

Shannon leaves without any further comments and Martin stalks off towards his own chambers

He has a hunt to plan. 

# 

The world feels fuzzy and strange to Malcolm when he wakes up. The first time he opens his eyes they feel so heavy that he can’t keep them open for long and he drifts back to sleep. The next time he manages to stay awake and take in his surroundings. He’s in the physician’s chambers, not his own room. Had he fallen ill? 

His father is sitting in a chair besides his bed, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed in sleep himself. There’s a warm weight at his side and he looks down to see little Ainsley wrapped in a blanket, curled up at his side on the small cot.

“Father?” he calls out quietly, not wanting to wake his sister.

His father wakes with a start, his eyes immediately coming to rest on Malcolm’s face as relief spreads across his face.

“Malcolm, my boy. You’re awake. How does your head feel?” 

“My head?”

“Yes, son. I found you lying on the floor in the east wing. Do you remember what happened?” his father asks, and though his voice is gentle there’s an edge to it that Malcolm can’t quite place.

“I don’t remember anything,” he admits, shaking his head slowly.

He can see a flash of surprise in his father’s eyes, there and gone in a moment as he plasters on an overly bright smile.

“That’s fine, Malcolm. It's to be expected with a head injury.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to make sense of the blurry memories, but it only makes his head swim. Swim, but not hurt. It doesn’t feel at all like he’d hit his head, and yet...

“I remember… you were gone! On a trip. You came back early?” Malcolm asks, suddenly confused by his father’s presence.

His father seems taken aback by Malcolm’s question and he gives him a look that Malcolm can’t quite place.

“Yes, my boy, that’s right. I came back early because of the weather. I came looking for you, first thing. When I found you, you were unconscious. Were you playing on the battlements?”

“Maybe? But I don’t remember any rain,” Malcolm admits, his confusion growing.

“That’s fine, my boy. It’s all going to be fine. In fact, since I came back early, I have some free time available in my schedule. What do you think of going on a hunt, as soon as you’re feeling better?”

“Truly, father?” Malcolm exclaims, all his concerns fleeing at the possibility of accompanying his father on his first hunt.

“Truly. You’re old enough, now. We’ll go as soon as you feel up to it, and your mother agrees to let you go,” his father tells him, giving him that smile that he saves just for Malcolm, when they’re alone together as father and son, and Malcolm can’t help but return it with a wide, happy grin of his own.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of our favorite chapters. We hope you enjoy it as much as we do!

# 

“Arroyo, get a move on. We don’t want to keep the king and his party waiting!”

Gil huffs under the weight of the saddle he’s carrying, knowing that Sir Turner is mostly jesting with him, but disgruntled nonetheless. They’d been called upon to join the king’s party not half an hour ago, and while Gil is diligent in his care and upkeep of Sir Turner’s equipment as well as his own, he can only ready both their gear and mounts so quickly. 

Sir Turner steps around his horse and takes the saddle from Gil’s arms. 

“I’ve got this, son. Go grab your things.”

“Sir, I can manage,” Gil protests, worried that he’s somehow let his frustration show on his face or in his carriage.

“I know you can, Gil. But there’s no reason for me to laze about while you do all the work. Go on, off with you.”

Gil hurries back towards the stables where his horse and hunting gear are waiting, saddling his mount quickly and strapping down his weapons and an extra change of clothes with a quick, practiced ease that comes from being a squire for many years. This may be his first time accompanying the king and his party, but it is not his first hunt and he refuses to let the nervous energy simmering beneath his skin distract him from doing his duty, and doing it well.

He’d become Sir Turner’s page when he was seven and has been serving the man ever since. His knight master is one of the best in the realm, a loyal man, and capable, who has the king’s trust and for many years oversaw the protection of much of the kingdom’s northern border. It’s an honor to serve such a man, but it also means that Gil has spent most of his time as a squire in isolation, away from the court functions and tournaments and expeditions that usually lead to a squire gaining notice and notoriety, and eventually knighthood. He’s nearing one and twenty years already, several years past the time when most squires are knighted. But he’d never complain to Sir Turner about such a thing—it is his duty as much as Sir Turner’s to obey the king and defend the land. 

Gil knows that Sir Turner has been pleased with his performance as a squire, and that’s all that matters to him. He doesn’t need to win tournaments or lady’s favors or hunt boar to know that he is a good squire or that he’ll make a fine knight one day. 

_But._

He _is_ glad to be back in the capital and he knows that his master is as well. He even suspects that Sir Turner may have requested they be allowed to return from the border for a time, though the older knight would never admit to doing such a thing. Gil looks forward to testing himself against the other squires, to proving himself, and by extension, Sir Turner. He also looks forward to enjoying the comforts of the capital and the companionship of others of his age and station, even though there are few squires as old as he. 

They aren’t late. In fact, several more people arrive after they do. He gives Sir Turner a self-satisfied smirk each time they do, the older knight laughing each time, shaking his head fondly.

The king and his party are the last to arrive. Gil has met him once already, several weeks ago, upon their return to the capital and official introduction to the court. He’s not a large man, but he exudes authority and power, carrying himself with the confidence of a man who is certain of being obeyed, not because he is king, but because he is _right_. From what Gil has heard the king is well liked by his subjects, commanding love and loyalty, and only a small amount of fear. By all accounts he seems to be the ideal ruler.

King Martin is accompanied by his personal guard, a man Gil has heard referred to only as David. He’s a tall, silent man, and ever vigilant. There’s a boy with them as well. He looks to be about eight and after a moment Gil realizes he must be the young Prince Malcolm. He hasn’t met the young prince yet, but his curly hair is exactly like his father’s, leaving no doubt as to his identity.

He’s small for his age, Gil realizes. He knows the prince to be 11 years old now. He’s fair skinned and looks healthy and hardy despite his size, a rosy tint coloring his cheeks as he smiles in excitement at the goings on around him. 

“It’s the prince’s first hunt, too,” Sir Turner whispers to Gil, noticing his gaze. “So you needn’t worry about being the only new boy here.”

“This is hardly my first hunt, sir,” Gil scoffs, shaking his head and pulling his gaze away from the Royal entourage and back to his master.

Sir Turner gives him an impish smile and claps him heartily on the back before urging his horse into motion. Now that the king has arrived their party can depart and they set off in a cacophony of noise, dogs baying and knights yelling to their horses and their squires alike.

Sir Turner leads them to the center of the pack, falling alongside two fellow knights and striking up a conversation like old friends. Which, they likely are, Gil realizes. He remains silent and attentive, taking in as many details as he can. Sir Turner has taught him to be watchful and observant, instilling in him the firm belief that knowledge is power and more useful than a sword most times.

He finds his gaze often returning to the king and the young prince. The boy is animated, speaking freely with his father as they ride. It warms Gil’s heart to see that the king welcomes the boy’s questions and meets his son’s enthusiasm with a smile and an open ear. Too many noblemen are cold to their children, overbearing and harsh.

The day progresses well. The weather is fine, if a little warm. The heat is something Gil has had to adjust to since returning from the north country. Even in the summer the weather there is temperate unlike in the capital, but he is learning to live with it. They catch several deer before finding themselves on the trail of a boar, and a large one at that. The mood of the party shifts, then. Even with their numbers and armorment, a fully grown male boar can be dangerous prey. They are all on the lookout, reading the signs of the forest carefully and listening for the tell tale rustle of movement in the undergrowth.

He notices that many of the pages and new squires fall to the back, along with the prince, as their inexperience is likely to endanger not only themselves but also those around them. He stays with Sir Turner. This is far from his first boar hunt. If he can distinguish himself in some way, he may even draw the favor of the king.

After several more moments spent in a tense silence, a chorus of whispers erupts from behind the party. Gil turns quickly in his saddle, shooting a glare at the gaggle of boys behind them. They should know better than to let their boredom give way to senseless prattle, especially when on the trail of game, even if they aren’t engaged in the chase itself.

He expects to find them joking or arguing as boys do, but instead their faces are solemn, almost frightened, and he frowns. They fall silent under his stare and he turns his attention forward once more, intent on being the first to spot some sign of their quarry, maybe even bringing the boar down himself…

“Sir, um, I mean, squire Arroyo?” a timid voice speaks from behind him and he turns in his seat once more, letting out an obvious sigh of impatience.

The squire shrinks beneath his glare but doesn’t fall back. 

“What is it?” Gil hisses.

“It's the prince, sir. He’s missing,” the squire whispers back. 

That draws Gil up short. He glances around to see if anyone else had heard the boy, and wonders if he should say something. He doesn’t know the prince well, doesn’t know if he’s one to play pranks, to go off on his own in a pique if his feelings are hurt. The squire beside him is clearly concerned, though, and that gives Gil pause.

He groans softly but his mind is already made. “Excuse me, sir. I’ll… catch up,” he whispers to Sir Turner, who gives him a questioning look but doesn't push any further.

Gil falls back, joining the group of young squires and cursing his luck. He’ll never catch the boar now. He likely won’t even be involved in the case. But the squire had come to him for help and he couldn't turn him away, it wouldn’t be right. 

“What’s this about the prince being gone, then?” he whispers wearily. “Are you certain he didn’t wander off?”

“He wouldn’t!” one of the boys speaks up. “He always follows the trail, looking for signs, just like the knights. He said he had to piss, that he’d catch up but he never did and there’s no sign of him.”

Gil looks back the way they came, scanning the trees for any sign that the boy is hiding, waiting to play a trick or just bored of the hunt, lurking behind, lost in his own thoughts, but he sees nothing.

“Fine. I’ll go back to look for him, you lot keep on with the rest of the group. If I don’t come back soon, tell Sir Turner. You know him, yes?”

The boys nod. 

“Good. On you go. I’m sure the prince is fine, we’ll rejoin you shortly.”

The boys ride on in silence once more and Gil watches them go wistfully for a moment or two before turning his horse and going back the way they’d come. 

He searches along either side of the beaten down trail left by the hunting party, looking for any signs of where the prince may have gone. He finds it easily enough and follows it into the woods. A woods he is entirely unfamiliar with himself, he realizes, and is just as likely to find himself lost in as he is to find the silly boy prince. He rides on for several long minutes and with each foot further he travels he wonders what could possibly have drawn the boy so far into the woods and away from the main party.

He hears the sounds of a scuffle before he sees them. A man’s voice, crying out in shock and anger, and the frightened, gasping breaths of a child. He dismounts quickly, forging ahead through the trees as quickly and silently as he is able towards where he can see movement and bright flashes of colors through the leaves. He doesn’t have his sword—it's still in the scabbard attached to his saddle—but he has his dagger and he draws it smoothly, holding it at the ready as he pushes through the last of the underbrush. 

He sees the prince first, small and vulnerable where he’s lying on the ground, clearly frightened, with blood dripping from a cut on his eyebrow. He’s backed against the trunk of a tree and though his eyes are wide with fear, he isn’t cowering. He’s looking defiantly up at the man who’s looming over him with his sword raised, ready to strike. 

In that moment Gil doesn’t think of anything besides stopping the attacker. He rushes forward and barrels into the man, careful of both his own dagger and the man’s sword but little else. The man lets out a surprised whoosh of air as Gil’s attack sends them both tumbling to the forest floor. Gil recovers quickly, regaining his feet and holding his dagger out defensively. The man groans, rolling painfully in the dirt and Gil catches sight of the blood staining his shirt, the way he clutches at his side. He kicks the man’s sword away and keeps his dagger raised between them.

“Who are you? What is your business with the prince?” Gil demands. 

The man’s face is covered by a helmet and Gil can barely see the reflection of light in his eyes. He’s silent and still apart from the rapid rise and fall of his chest, then suddenly he lashes out with one foot and Gil finds himself toppling to the ground, their positions expertly switched with the barest of effort from the other man. Gil scurries to position himself between the man and the prince, keeping his dagger up, ready to defend despite his more vulnerable position. The man pushes himself to his feet, biting back another groan that he can’t quite hide but his stance doesn’t waver. Gil starts to stand, too, watching the man carefully.

“He’s got a knife!” the prince cries out from behind Gil.

The warning comes not a moment too soon. The man moves with a preternatural speed, palming a knife faster than Gil can even see, and if not for the prince’s warning he never would have caught the motion in time. He ducks, blocking the prince’s body with his own. The knife buries itself in the tree trunk just above his head, where his heart would have been had he not been forewarned.

Gil snarls, lunging forward, and punches the man hard in the stomach. He doesn’t want to kill the man until he knows why he was after the prince, but he may not have a choice.

The man stumbles back, doubling over and wheezing for breath. He continues to move back, distancing himself from Gil with each step.

“You won’t be so lucky next time, little Malcolm,” the man grunts out, his voice masked by the helmet but Gil can hear the venom in his tone. 

One more step back, then the man turns and runs, disappearing into the woods as if he was never there in the first place. 

Gil considers giving chase, but a small, sobbing breaths coming from behind keep him there. He turns, dropping to a knee in front of the young prince. The boy’s eyes are glazed over in pain and Gil can see that the area around the cut on his forehead is already showing signs of bruising. He reaches out to test the area around the cut but the prince shrinks back from him with a whimper. Gil pulls back and raises both hands in front of him slowly, ensuring that the prince can see every move he makes in order not to startle him further.

“Your highness, it’s alright. You’re safe now,” he says gently.

The boy moans softly and tries to push himself up, eyes narrowed as he focuses on Gil’s face.

“You’re the new squire,” he whispers. 

“Yes, I’m Gil. Are you hurt anywhere besides your head, sire?” 

The boy shakes his head, then winces. His eyelids flutter, and he slumps back against the tree, head rolling to the side.

Gil moves quickly, checking his body for any signs of bleeding or broken bones, but finds none. The head wound is the worst of it, that and the fear. His gaze is caught by the flash of light on metal and he reaches to the boy’s side and finds a small sword there, the tip covered in blood.

Ah, that’s how the man had received his injury, then. The prince had gotten at least one hit in. Gil looks back at the boy, considers his small frame in a new light, impressed that someone so young and inexperienced and _tiny_ had managed to injure a fully grown man with considerable combat skills.

He sticks the small sword through his belt and sheathes his own dagger, then bends down to scoop the prince up, one arm behind his back, the other below his knees. He’s light and easy to carry and Gil lifts him to his saddle with ease, holding him tightly against his own body with one arm before spurring his horse into the fastest gait he dares across the forest floor, following his own trail back to that of the main party.

He finds them quickly. They’ve stopped and several knights are dismounted, gathered around something on the ground and Gil’s heart sinks when he realizes it's the boar he’d hoped to have a hand in catching. But his task had been much more important, he tells himself, the warm weight of the boy in front of him a reminder of what could have been lost had he not gone after the prince. 

“Where is the king?” he calls out as he approaches the group.

He receives a few glares for his insolence at first, but as the knights recognize the boy in his arms, a cry goes out through the group. The king appears from amongst the men gathered around the fallen boar, a scowl on his face as he approaches. Gil can see the moment the king’s eyes fall on his son. His face goes white, mouth dropping open in shock for a moment before he lets out a cry of concern.

“Malcolm! Malcolm, my boy. What happened?” he demands, rushing up to Gil and holding out his hands.

Gil lowers the boy carefully into his father’s arms before dismounting himself. The king sets Malcolm gently on the forest floor, brushing curls back from his pale face, cupping his cheek tenderly.

“He was attacked in the woods,” Gil explains, watching as the king checks the boy over, hands gentle as he prods along his ribs, pushes tenderly against the cut on his head. Malcolm moans quietly, turning away from the touch.

“I believe the head wound is his only injury, and it's the shock that caused him to lose consciousness,” Gil continues.

The king turns to him, rising swiftly to his feet and grabbing his tunic, pulling him forward roughly. He isn’t a large man but he is strong and his anger is overwhelming in it’s suddenness and intensity. 

“Tell me what you saw! Who did this to my son?” he demands, face twisted in a vicious snarl.

Gil is shocked speechless for a moment ‘til he feels a hand on his shoulder and glances to the side to see Sir Turner beside him, calm as ever, offering his silent support. Gil takes a calming breath and turns his attention back to the king.

“I arrived after the man had already injured the prince, your majesty. I stopped him, we fought briefly but he ran. He was injured, the prince is a fighter it seems,” Gil adds with a small smile. “I would have pursued him, but I didn’t want to leave the prince alone, sire.”

“Did you see his face? Could you recognize him again?” the king presses.

“I’m sorry, sire, I didn’t. He was wearing a helmet that covered his face.”

The king seems… relieved. But that doesn’t seem right—resigned, perhaps? 

“You saved my boy,” the king says suddenly, releasing his grip on Gil’s tunic and stepping back, shaking himself as if waking from a dream. “Tell me your name again, squire?”

“Gil Arroyo, your majesty.”

“Thank you, truly, Gil Arroyo. You will be rewarded for your service to the crown. But now I must bring my boy home. Sir Turner, I’d appreciate it if you and your squire would accompany me and my guard back to the castle. The rest of you can finish the hunt and return at your leisure,” the king announces.

A page has the king’s mount held at the ready and the king rises, the prince in his arms. Gil steps forward to help the king settle himself and the prince into his saddle before mounting his own horse.

Their small party sets off through the woods, the king leading the way, Sir David at his side. Sir Turner falls into place beside Gil and claps him heartily on the back. He doesn’t speak but the pride is clear in his eyes and it makes Gil’s heart swell. 

He may not have speared a boar, but he had accomplished his task of earning the king’s favor nonetheless. 

# 

Martin holds tightly to Malcolm’s limp body as he races back towards the castle. 

He’ll kill John for this. The man is used to having certain… _liberties…_ but this is a step too far. He’d been ready to do what was necessary—he still would do what was necessary, if he must—but for now it’s no longer needed, and he refuses to sacrifice his boy for nothing, to lose his precious son over something that no longer mattered anyways.

Martin can feel his blood boiling in his veins, the familiar rage that so often threatens to break free building up within him as he thinks of what could have happened. He focuses on the steady rise and fall of his son’s chest beneath his arm and it grounds him, reminds him that his boy is alive and that he’ll be fine, just fine. 

He hadn’t even noticed his boy had been missing, too caught up in the excitement of the hunt to bother seeking out his son, even after the boar had been brought down. He should have realized something was wrong when Malcolm didn’t come hurrying to his side, but things had been so strained between them that he’d grown accustomed to Malcolm keeping his distance and had thought nothing of his absence. He hadn’t considered the possibility that John would disregard his instructions, that he would carry on with his original plan despite Martin’s orders that the boy be left alive after all.

He hadn’t made the decision to have his son killed lightly. When he’d found Malcolm in his study, looking down into the cell where he’d had his most recent experiment hidden away, he immediately knew that he had to do something. Malcolm was his boy, his precious son, his legacy, but even he wasn’t more important than Martin’s work, than the kingdom. And Martin’s work was for the good of the kingdom. But Malcolm was still too young, still too _soft_ to understand such things. When he’d looked at Martin all he could see was a monster. Not his king, and certainly not his father. So Martin had acted. He’d sent for his secret weapon, the assassin hiding in the castle in plain sight, ever ready to serve the king’s whims. He’d told him of his problem. Of his plans for the hunt. Of the need for Malcolm not to return alive from the hunt. John didn’t ask any questions—he never did—and he had no qualms killing a child. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But then his boy had woken with no memories of what he’d seen. No memories of nearly two days before finding the girl, and everything had changed. If he didn’t remember then there was no need for him to die. Martin had never felt such relief in his life. He’d written a note for John, well, _Paul_ , and had it delivered by a trusted knight as soon as he’d left the physician’s chambers, stating clearly that there was no longer any need for the boy to be killed.

Yet John had still gone after his son.

When he’d seen his boy in the squire’s arms—limp and pale, blood on his face—he’d thought for sure that his son was dead. John was an expert at his craft, there was no way Malcolm would survive an encounter with the man. But then Malcolm had stirred, the smallest of movements but enough to restart Martin’s stuttering heart, overwhelming relief warring with a new, rising fear of discovery. If Malcolm or this squire had seen John’s face he’ll have even more of a mess on his hands than ever before.

The squire was open in his responses to Martin’s questions, there’d been no suspicion in his tone and he clearly regretted being unable to identify the prince’s attacker. Only then did Martin allow himself to relax his guard, certain that his hands were still clean of this mess. He allows himself to feel a surge of pride at the fact that his boy had managed to get a hit on John and supposes that if Malcolm is capable of that, then there is still hope that he can be shaped into Martin’s true heir. It may require a softer touch, a slower pace than Martin would have prefered, but the boy has it in him.

Malcolm wakes briefly on the journey back to the castle, stirring fitfully in Martin’s arms and nearly unseating himself when he jerks violently back to consciousness. Martin slows his horse to a walk and manages to turn Malcolm in the saddle so he’s sat sideways across the pommel, leaning against Martin’s chest.

“Hush, my boy. You’re safe now, I have you, son,” he soothes, cupping his face gently with his free hand and tilting his head up so Malcolm can see that it’s him.

Malcolm stills and though his eyes are still wide with fear he relaxes into Martin’s hold, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corners of his lips.

“I fought him, father,” he whispers. “Like you taught me.”

Martin’s heart feels as if it might burst, swelling with pride at his son’s words, the confirmation that the boy had been listening all these years.

“You did so well, my boy. So well.”

Malcolm’s smile grows and he snuggles into Martin’s chest, his head drooping once more as he slips into the exhausted sleep of a boy who’d experienced far too much excitement for one day.

They reach the castle shortly after and Martin carries Malcolm directly to Simon’s chambers. He’s nearly there when he realizes that Sir Turner and his squire are still following him obediently and he pauses long enough to release them with a promise that he won’t forget Arroyo’s service to the crown. The young man is clearly loyal and it's high time… but that can wait. Malcolm is his priority now. 

He pushes into Simon's chambers without knocking, certain that the physician will drop whatever he's doing to tend to the prince. David waits dutifully outside the door, ready to intercept anyone who may try to interrupt them.

He stops in his tracks just inside the door, face to face with John himself.

John is his left-hand man. A master assassin and spy with a web of informants and hired killers at his disposal. Within the castle he’s known as Paul, assistant to the castle laundress. He’s quiet but charming, handsome even when he isn’t sporting a beard that obscures his face, and unassuming. Most people assume he’s simple and it suits him fine. 

He’s also a dead man.

Simon leaves John’s side immediately and rushes forward to take Malcolm carefully from Martin’s arms. The boy stirs, snuffling softly before settling once more as Simon lays him on the bed and begins his examination.

John had risen to his feet as soon as Martin had entered the room but hasn’t moved since. He has one arm wrapped carefully around his side which has been recently bandaged. He watches Martin warily, shifting his weight minutely as the king turns the full force of his rage-filled glare onto the man.

John may be a trained killer, but Martin is gratified to see that he visibly shrinks in the face of his king's furry.

"You dare show your face here?" Martin snarls at the man, his voice quiet and deadly serious.

John glances quickly towards Malcolm and Martin nearly draws his sword then and there but he manages to hold himself in check, barely.

“Your majesty, I was—”

“Did you think that you knew better than me? That my orders could be ignored without consequences?” Martin presses, stepping forward, hands curling into fists at his side as he watches John’s face and sees no sign of remorse or regret.

“Ignored, sire? I don’t understand,” John murmurs intently. “I tried sire, but he’s braver than he looks,” he continues, his lip curling in a barely concealed snarl. 

Martin does draw his sword then, the sound of metal on metal as it slides free of its scabbard ringing loudly in the small room, startling Simon and John both. He presses the tip of the blade to John's throat before he can react. 

“You’re lucky he stopped you when he did. If you’d killed him, I’d have run you through the moment I saw you. Now, give me one reason why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted!” John exclaims loudly, his face a mask of confusion and no small amount of fear as he looks down the length of Martin’s sword.

Malcolm stirs, whimpering quietly. Martin drops his sword and slaps a hand over John’s mouth instead, silencing him. He watches his son closely, willing him to stay asleep a moment longer so he can deal with John properly. The boy stills once more, eyes still firmly shut, and Martin turns his attention back to John who’s watching him with wide eyes, but wisely remains still beneath his hand, awaiting his judgement.

“I sent word that you were _not_ to kill him,” Martin hisses. “Answer me truthfully, did you or did you not receive my message?”

John pales, swaying where he stands at Martin’s words, and that more than anything convinces Martin that the assassin didn’t know. He lifts his hand from John’s mouth, allowing him to answer. 

“I swear, sire, on my life. I never received any such message. I thought you wanted the boy dead. I wouldn’t dare to lay a hand on him otherwise,” John answers earnestly.

Martin considers him for a moment longer. He believes the man, and yet…

He lashes out, a sharp open-palmed blow that catches John full across the face and sends him sprawling to the ground. 

“If I find that you are lying to me, I’ll have your head. Now leave. I don’t want to see your face again until I send for you,” he orders before turning away from the man and going to kneel next to Malcolm.

He doesn’t look back at John, but he knows the man will obey him. He always does.

# 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Note: The oath is pretty much word for word the Oath of Fealty for the SCA Kingdom of Gleann Abhann which can be found [right here.](https://gleannabhann.net/oathoffealty/)
> 
> Awe Hail.

The wind coming off the Sina Bay whips through Malcolm’s hair and clothes, keeping him cool in the late summer sun. He stands alone on the top of the North East tower, watching the ships far below glide across the calm water. Small fishing boats are making their way back to dock with the day’s hauls while larger vessels come in and out through the mouth of the bay, clearing the barrier that’s been lowered between the two cliffs that protect the inner kingdom. 

His head hurts, a dull throb from the bruise he’d gotten in the attempt on his life out in the forest. He’d never been so terrified, certain he was about to die despite pushing through the fear to fight back. But then the squire had arrived, stepped in and taken charge to save Malcolm in a way that he was obviously incapable of on his own. 

The bruise on his forehead aches a touch less than the shame that he’d been so helpless. 

By his father’s tellings, however, he should be in even more pain, with a larger knot on the back of his head from his fall a few days prior to that. 

But when he’d woken up, Malcolm had just felt… hazy. He doesn’t remember playing on the battlements. Especially in the rain. He’s never minded getting wet, of course, but when he has duties and lessons to attend to, he tries to keep himself tidy as is expected of him, and playing about in a raging storm isn’t exactly something he would get up to any longer. But he also doesn’t remember  _ what  _ he was doing. He doesn’t remember anything, really, of the day or two prior to waking up in Simon’s chambers with his father at his side and his little sister sleeping in the cot next to him. 

His father—the man who holds him close, cradles him in his arms when he’s injured, shares his secrets, and has a soft smile that is reserved just for Malcolm. His father, the king. The king who lies, who manipulates, who keeps journals full of methods of detailed and painful ways to kill people. The king he realizes now that he doesn’t trust. His father had been the one who held him tightly after the attack, who had praised him and had a fierce protectiveness and no small amount of pride that Malcolm had fought back.

But it had been the king he’d woken up to the day before, who had lied to him about what he’d been doing when he fell. Malcolm isn’t sure when he learned to spot the difference, to somehow know when Martin isn’t being honest, but something deep in his stomach tells him he’s right, that something is wrong.

He just wishes he could figure out what it is.

“Your Highness?”

Malcolm spins around a little too fast and has to hold a hand to his head but greets the man who has surprised him with a small, weary smile. “Sir Gil!” 

“Not Sir just yet, your highness. Wait ‘til a little later this evening.” 

The squire who had saved Malcolm’s life bows low. He’s dressed in fine attire befitting the new station he will be accepting in a few short hours, with a deep red tunic adorned in intricate details and the kingdom’s crest emblazoned across his chest. “I apologize for interrupting your privacy. I hadn’t expected to find anyone up here.”

“It’s fine,” Malcolm assures him before gesturing to his side and turning back to the bay while the squire joins him at the ledge. “Have you been up here yet? It is an amazing view.”

“Today is the first time I’ve had the opportunity to do any exploring, actually,” he says easily. 

To Malcolm’s surprise the squire leans forward against the stone and rests on his arms, making it so the two of them are eye to eye when he looks over at the prince. It would normally be seen as far too casual in his presence, but Malcolm finds himself relaxing at the gesture. He’s used to adults interacting with him for the first time by either completely ignoring his station and treating him like a child, by bending to his station, or by bumbling around trying to find a balance between the two: respect they’re expected to show and, well, still treating him like a child. 

Malcolm smiles a little easier at the way this man seems to naturally strike that balance. He is respectful of his prince, but not cowed by him, nor has he yet to speak down at him. 

“I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet,” Malcolm says, watching the way the squire's deep brown eyes widen as they scan the horizon, “for saving my life.” 

His dark, wavy hair sways a little against his shoulders in the breeze and for a moment Malcolm wonders what his own curls would look like if his mother ever let him grow them out that long.

“No thanks are necessary, sire. It was my honor.” He places a closed fist over his heart and bows a little, then smiles once he’s at rest again. “I do need to thank you, however.”

Malcolm is taken aback. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I beg to differ. You had already fought back against your attacker when I arrived, and without your warning I would have been a dead man and a poor excuse for a rescuer. I owe you my life.” He sounds so genuine, so sincere, that Malcolm’s surprise is slowly overtaken by a warm sense of pride. His mother and father praise him all the time, but they are his parents. And their subjects typically do nothing but dote on him, but he is their prince.

This feels different. He is being thanked for something he has actually done, not praised because of something he is.

Malcolm turns back to watch the ships again, trailing one far off in the distance until it disappears, letting the silence linger comfortably. 

“You’re welcome, Soon-to-be-Sir Gil,” Malcolm eventually says quietly.

Gil laughs, shaking his head and Malcolm tries to hide his pleased smile.

"Did… did you always want to be a knight?" he asks the older man, suddenly. 

Though Malcolm has known many knights, he’s never really gotten the chance to talk to them like this. Beyond that, it’s always seemed to him that people are born to do something and that’s just… what they do. 

The squire seems to study him for a moment, gaze locked on the prince, soft but calculating. 

"For many in my station,” he begins, and Malcolm shifts so he can turn and look at him directly. “It is the only option. But my father was a knight and I always knew I would follow in his footsteps. Not because I had to or was expected to, but because I wanted to.” 

“So you wanted to be like your father?”

“Yes and no. He was a good man. For anyone to compare me to him would never be an insult. But I am my own man, with my own desires. My father fought to protect his family, and his king,” he says with a small nod to Malcolm. 

“So you don’t want to protect your king?” Malcolm jokes with a smile, and is glad when Gil shrugs it off with one of his own and a huff of a laugh. 

“Of course I do. I will take a vow to the crown, as all knights must. But I want to protect more than just those I care about, or a symbol. I want to protect people who can’t protect themselves. The baker who has never lifted a sword in his life, the children, the cobbler, the retired knights who can no longer fight. That is why I have trained so hard, why I fight, why I will take that oath this evening and mean every last word from the bottom of my heart.”

“Because they can’t?”

“Because they can’t,” Gil agrees with a smile.

As the bell tower begins to toll Malcolm falls silent, repeating what Gil has said over and over in his head. 

Malcolm wants to help too. And he is in the best position to do so of anyone in the kingdom. But he has spent so long being so afraid of becoming like his father, of having to learn how to do things his way in order to be an  _ effective  _ ruler one day that he’d never stopped to consider that he didn’t have to do things just like the king. He could be his own man, his own king. Just because something works for Martin, doesn’t mean Malcolm has to follow in his footsteps. It will be difficult, he realizes as soon as he has the thought, but as long as he surrounds himself with good people—like Soon-to-be-Sir Gil—and makes the right decisions, he’ll be able to make a change, to be better.

_ Power protects us all. _

Yet the kind of power King Martin wields is not the kind that sits right in Malcolm’s heart. He has no desire to walk all over other kingdoms just to ensure the wealth of his own, or to harm people in the name of peace. No. Malcolm will do things differently. 

He just has to figure out how. 

  


Malcolm has always loved the pomp and circumstance of the ceremonies of court. The courtiers are all dressed in their finest attire, the halls of the castle are decked in their most intricate tapestries, and the words spoken have always been beautiful. But today, the young Prince finds new meaning in the solemnity of this oath.

He watches Gil from the moment the man enters the hall. Malcolm notes how he holds himself tall and proud, how he bites back on a smile but his eyes are alight with excitement and awe. When he kneels at the feet of the King and Queen, he spares Malcolm a quick glance, finally allowing himself to smile, a gesture that seems almost like it’s just for the prince. 

His father makes the customary grandiose introductions while his mother fills in all the specific wording as required of Queen of the Realm. It's an ancient speech, each of their parts flowing together in tone and sincerity. 

Martin then takes a moment to publicly thank Gil for his specific feat of bravery that saved the life of their only son. He gets rather loud and excited applause for that, which only makes Malcolm's head twinge a little.

The words of the knight’s oath are as ingrained into Malcolm's memory as his own name. 

Yet when Gil speaks, it's as if he's hearing them, truly, for the first time.

"I, Gil Arroyo, this day pledge fealty to the Crown of Milton. I vow to provide my arms in times of war, my art in times of peace, and my service in times of need. I promise to defend our fair Kingdom against all that desire her harm with word, deed and force. From this day forward, as long as my Crown allows, I am bound to be faithful, holding honour and courtesy above all." 

Gil's voice is strong and  _ powerful,  _ reverent, as he speaks the words Malcolm has heard a hundred times over. They come not from memorization, but straight from his heart. Malcolm finds himself entranced by the man's sincerity and conviction. 

His mother takes the ceremonial sword in hand and lays it across Gil's right shoulder. "Let all here bear witness," she begins in a loud, crystal clear tone. "That We, Jessica, Queen of Milton."

"And Martin, King of Milton," his father says with a smile evident in his voice. 

Then, his favorite part, they speak as one, "hear and accept your oath of fealty, given in good faith. In turn, We vow to defend and support you and yours, with word, deed and force. Those that keep and hold this oath true will be rewarded with Our favour. Those that forget this oath and break faith shall be repaid with Our judgement and dreadful wrath."

Martin's voice fades as Jessica moves the sword from one shoulder to the other, then back again before pulling it away completely. Then, she completes their oath. "Now, arise Sir Gil, keeping Honour and Courtesy above all."

For as long as he lives, Malcolm will never forget how as Sir Gil stands, the newest knight of the realm, his smile lights up the entire kingdom.

  
  
  


The feast that follows his ceremony is unlike anything Gil has ever experienced in his entire life. 

He’s overwhelmed by the sweet scent of poached pears and sugared almonds, the heavy smell of freshly baked bread and various glazed and roasted vegetables. The three different types of meat laid across the table—a full roast boar, venison, and turkey all rubbed down in exotic spices—make his mouth water. 

There’s music and entertainment and, eventually, dancing. Gil realizes this is more than just welcoming a new knight to the kingdom, but an overt gesture of thanks on the part of the King and Queen for saving their only son. 

Gil sits between the king and the young prince, swapping tales from the border with both for grand and epic retellings of adventures the king has been on in his time. There are even quite a few amusing anecdotes from the prince about his observations of castle life. 

Which is the only reason he isn’t taken aback when the young man begins whispering in Gil’s ear as noble after noble is paraded in front of him for introductions, hoping to curry some favor from the king’s new obvious favorite. 

Prince Malcolm is a surprisingly pleasant companion for someone so young. He’s obviously well educated, which isn’t surprising in the least for a future king, but his mannerisms and conversations skills are that of someone well beyond his years. The fact that he stays by Gil’s side almost all evening doesn’t bother the new Knight at all. 

“Sir Jake is a bit of a…” Malcolm clears his throat. “An angry individual. But, he’s one of our best fighters and trains many squires,” then Malcolm’s voice drops off into a grumble, “ _ unfortunately. _ ”

Gil has to bite back a laugh as he watches the knight who can’t be that much older than he is make conversation with some of the others Gil has met this evening. “Oh, and here comes Lord Dex!” Malcolm perks up at that and Gil gets to meet a portly, dark skinned man who looks like the smile never leaves his features. Malcolm comes alive speaking with the Lord, almost forgetting to introduce the two. 

When Lord Dex makes his excuses he’s replaced before Gil can lift his cup of mead by a tall, striking looking woman with angular features and a piercing gaze. Malcolm introduces her as The Honorable Lady Simone. Lady Simone is as clear as is appropriate in public with what she’d like from Gil and the knight has to wonder just how much of her seductive nature the young prince picks up on and what he doesn’t yet understand. But when she leaves as well, Malcolm smirks, and shakes his head. “Just remember she’s not a widow yet.”

He’s introduced to many more people that he does his best to remember including Lady Elaine, the town’s chemist, and Father Leo, whom the King and Queen apparently indulge by letting him preach his brand of religious fervor amongst the populace—at least according to the prince. More intriguing than Simone had been, however, is a knight named Sir Lorric. He can’t be more than a couple years Gil’s senior, with long, shining blonde curls and a teasing smile. His eyes are a stunning shade of green and Gil finds himself at a bit of a loss for words during their introductions. 

Throughout the evening, he finds his gaze drawn back to the knight over and over.

“Sir Gil!” Sir Ian Turner finally makes his way to where Gil and Malcolm—who hasn’t left Gil’s side but has proven a valuable ally in getting to know the castle—have made camp for the dancing portion of the festivities. At Turner’s side is the knight that Gil had seen him speaking to on the hunt, slightly shorter than Turner and much more rough around the edges. 

Gil stands to grasp his knight in a fierce embrace, more thankful for everything he has done for him than Gil could ever put into words. “Congratulations, old friend. You’ve earned it,” Turner says quietly, just for Gil to hear. 

All Gil can do at the moment is nod, words caught in the tightness of his throat. The two knights make their greetings to the prince with smiles and bows, then Turner turns to the man at his side. “Owen, I don’t think you two have had a chance to properly meet.” He has a hand on the other man’s arm, a little posessively, and suddenly all those years of Gil teasing Sir Turner about never going out and having any fun and Turner refusing with a wistful smile make perfect sense. 

Sir Owen leans in with a conspiratorial grin towards Gil and Prince Malcolm.

“You want to hear something exciting that I bet even our young prince hasn’t gotten a hold of yet?” Malcolm's blue eyes light up in excitement.

Tuner tuts but still has a grin on his face. “Owen, I told you not to get the man's hopes up.”

“The only one who knows more about what’s going on in this castle than Sir Owen is my mother," Malcolm says sagely, then gestures for Sir Owen to keep going.

“Now, you didn’t hear this from me, but I have it on rather good authority that when you’re given your first assignment tomorrow you’ll be the envy of almost every knight in the kingdom. It’s one of the most coveted positions and hasn’t been filled yet.”

At Gil’s side Malcolm bounces on his feet, “No!” He doesn’t sound like he’s objecting though, rather in a state of excited disbelief. If his sudden open and brilliant smile is anything to go by, it’s exceptionally good.

“Care to fill in the new guy?” Gil asks his old knight who has his own smirk barely hidden behind his hand. 

Turner drops his arms in defeat and nods towards the young prince. “I sincerely hope you like his highness. You’re to be his personal guard, if the rumors are true, of course.”

The din of the party fades away at Turner’s words and Gil blinks at him in shock. To be offered such a prestigious position at his age, as soon as he’s knighted, is nearly unfathomable. So much so he almost asks the older knight to repeat his words. But his own mouth doesn’t seem to be working. 

As he looks between the two knights in shock, he sees out of the corner of his eye Malcolm go still, and a worried look comes over him with his brows drawn and a frown on his lips.

“Is that… a problem, Sir Gil?” For the first time since he met the prince, Malcolm actually sounds his own age, small and unsure of himself. 

Gil immediately drops to his knee to face the prince, giving him a wide, reassuring smile. “Of course not. It would be my honor to be charged with your protection, Prince Malcolm. You’ve already proven yourself to be quite brave, and, if I’m honest, not a bad dinner companion either.” 

The unease fades from Malcolm’s features and he nods. “I guess you’re alright as well.”

A laugh bursts from Gil’s chest that he doesn’t even attempt to clamp down on, and soon, all three of his current companions are chuckling along with him. He feels something settle, and hopes that Sir Owen’s information is correct. 

He’s pretty sure he’s going to like it here.

After the two knights leave, arm in arm, Gil spots Sir Lorric looking his way again. He gives the other knight a small nod and smooth smile which makes the other man’s pale flesh heat just enough to be noticeable. 

It’s an incredibly alluring sight.

"I think he wants something from you." 

Gil nearly spits out his ale at Malcolm’s words, following the young prince’s gaze exactly to where Gil had been staring. He clears his throat and pats his own chest a moment before responding "And what do you know of the things adults want?" 

The prince doesn’t even hesitate. "I've been coming to feasts since I was five and wandering the halls after the drinks have stopped flowing. I know enough. I also know there are two other people vying for his attention, so you should go soon before one of them does. It’s your party, but you’ve been here long enough it wouldn’t be seen as rude to… disappear for a while.”

Glad he’d set his drink aside, Gil hangs his head for a moment, seriously reconsidering all of his life choices that had led to him having an eleven year old royal encouraging him to go take a chance with someone. An eleven year old royal he’s likely about to be attached to for the foreseeable future. 

However, Prince Malcolm isn't wrong. It is his party and he's feeling high on excitement and pleasantly buzzed from all the food, drink, and merrymaking. He knocks back the remainder of his drink then makes his polite goodbyes to the prince who looks far too amused for someone his age, and heads off towards the curly headed knight.

Sir Lorric has already disengaged from the group he’s been in conversation with by the time Gil arrives, stepping smoothly into his space with a smile and a gleam in his eye.

“Would you care to dance with me, Sir Lorric?” Gil asks quietly, a soft touch on the older man’s elbow.

Sir Lorric leans into the touch with a nod, his own voice low and quiet so no one else will hear. “I think I’d like a little more than that.”

Heat is already pooling in Gil’s stomach and he takes the man’s hand to lead him out into the group just starting up the Black Nag. “Excellent. Let’s start there and see where the night goes, shall we?”


	6. Chapter 6

# 

Malcolm pauses nervously outside of his father's study—his public study, where he conducts most of his business for the crown, not the secret one in the tower. In all of his nearly 13 years his father has only officially summoned him to attend him in the study a handful of times, and most of those times were because he had been misbehaving. 

But he hasn't been, not for some time. He's been trying his best to be a model prince. He studies hard, excels all of his tutors expectations. When he joins the other boys for training with horses or basic weaponry he listens intently to each word the knights say and doesn't allow himself to be distracted by the other boys’ games. He doesn't want to disappoint his parents, and he certainly doesn't want to disappoint Gil. 

As his personal guard, Gil accompanies him almost everywhere. He doesn't have to, technically, when Malcolm is in lessons, but he never strays far. He's polite, formal, and dedicated to his duty as a knight should be. But he's also free with his praise when Malcolm does well. He never scolds or berates Malcolm when his behavior is less than exemplary, but Malcolm is sure that if he ever were to disappoint Gil it would be crushing. 

Unable to stall any longer Malcolm takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and knocks on the heavy door.

His father's voice rings out clearly, bidding him to enter, and he pushes his way into the room.

His father is at his desk, his posture relaxed as he reads over a parchment, a cup dangling loosely from his fingers. When he looks up and sees Malcolm his face splits into a delighted grin and he puts down both paper and cup.

"Malcolm, son! Come in, boy. I have something I need to discuss with you.”

Malcolm relaxes as soon as he realizes that his father isn’t angry or disappointed with him and makes his way to one of the simple wooden chairs that sit in front of his father’s desk.

“You know that I'm planning a trip to Ceron soon, right?” his father asks as soon as he’s seated.

“Yes father, I remember.”

“Well, how would you like to go with me?”

Malcolm sits up straight, eyes going wide in surprise.

“Really?” he asks, hardly able to believe his ears.

“Yes, my boy. You’re old enough now, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how diligently you’ve been pursuing your studies and your training. It’s clear that you’re taking your duties as prince seriously. It’s time for you to learn how to apply some of those theories you’ve been learning to real life.”

Malcolm is practically vibrating in his seat but he maintains his composure, keeping a straight face and nodding solemnly. 

“I have been trying, father. I want to be the best prince I can be.”

“That’s good, my boy, I know you do. But all work and no play is no good for a boy. The Taylor prince is about your age, perhaps you can make a new friend as well.”

“I’d like that very much!” Malcolm agrees, a smile he can’t quite contain making its way onto his face.

He’s never met another prince before, and the prospect of meeting another boy who shares both his age and station is exhilarating.

“Good, good!” his father exclaims loudly, clapping a hand on the desk. “We’ll leave in two days. Will you be ready?”

“Of course! I mean, yes father. I’ll be ready.”

“Very good. Now, run along. Go spend time with your mother and your sister. I’m sure they’ll miss you while you are away.”

Malcolm nearly leaps off the chair, reining himself in at the last possible moment and walking out at a proper pace, bowing slightly to his father before letting the door fall closed behind him. As soon as he’s in the hallway he jumps exuberantly into the air, throwing his fists up and letting out a nearly silent whoop of excitement.

Someone coughs discreetly from just down the hall and it startles him enough that he nearly loses his footing as he lands. He throws out a hand to catch himself on the wall and peeks down the hall, a flush of embarrassment quickly spreading across his cheeks.

His ever vigilant personal guard is leaning against the wall only a few feet away, arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s watching Malcolm with one raised eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Gil! What are you doing here?” Malcolm asks, his voice tinged with annoyance, not at the knight’s presence, but at having been caught so unawares.

“I went looking for you after your lessons, but your tutor told me you’d been called away. I assume your father told you the news, then?”

Malcolm nods, the grin he just can’t quite seem to contain spreading across his face once more.

“Yes! Wait, you knew?”

“I was told it might be a possibility. I was also strictly instructed not to say anything to you. Your father wanted to tell you himself.”

“We leave in two days! You’re coming with, right?” Malcolm asks.

“Of course. I can’t very well be your personal guard if I’m not even in the same country,” Gil points out, clapping the boy on the back and turning him down the hall. “Now come on, your Mother wants to see you. She’s…” he trails off.

Malcolm huffs, shaking his head. “Distraught?”

He sneaks a glance up at the knight to gauge his reaction to Malcolm’s disrespect. Gil is never disrespectful. He is always proper, always polite, always chivalrous, a perfect knight of the realm.

Gil isn’t looking at him, but Malcolm can see that he’s fighting a smile, and it’s gratifying to know that the knight feels the same way, even if he would never say it. He loves and respects his mother, but sometimes she can be a bit much. He knows it, and he knows that Gil knows it, too.

The next two days go by in a rush. His mother frets and fusses but he can tell that she’s proud of him as well. He spends his free time playing with Ainsley rather than off on his own as he usually would, or helping to pack for the trip. They’re going on horseback, a small party that can travel quickly. No carriage or cart. He’s to be responsible for his own horse and tackle, and his small sword and bow, and Gil shows him the best way to pack them along with his clothes which are packed by a servant under his mother’s watchful eye.

Gil comes to wake him early on the morning of their departure. The sun has barely begun to shine in the east, the soft light reflecting off the water of the bay in the distance while the western sky remains dark enough that a few stars still shine there.

He eats breakfast with his father and mother. It’s a simple, quick affair, hearty enough to keep them full on the road, then he heads straight for the stables to ready his horse. He needs help, still. The saddle is too large for him to carry, the horse too tall, but there’s a stool and he fastens all the buckles, and loads his own gear just like Gil had shown him. 

Their group is small, consisting of the king and his personal guard, Sir David; Malcolm and Gil; four other knights and two squires. The small numbers mean that each man will have to carry their own weight, Malcolm included, and he is eager to prove himself. 

Their party gathers in the courtyard beside the stables and Jessica comes out to see them off. She kisses Martin lovingly on the cheek before turning to Malcolm, and he’s suddenly worried that she’ll cry, or try to smother him in kisses. But she doesn’t. Jessica rests her hands on both his shoulders and plants one, quick kiss to the crown of his head before stepping back. He thinks that maybe he sees the glint of a tear in her eye, but it could be a trick of the light.

“Be good, my love,” she tells him quietly. “I know you’ll make me proud.”

He nods once, unable to speak past a tightness in his throat and suddenly worries that  _ he’ll  _ cry. He pushes back on the emotions welling within him and forces a wide grin.

“I will, mother. Give Ainsley kisses for me, tell her I’ll be home before she knows it!”

With that he turns and hurries to his horse, hiding his face as he checks the straps and buckles one more time, just in case the tears welling in his eyes manage to escape.

Someone claps him on the shoulder and he turns to see his father standing beside him.

“I have something for you, my boy,” he whispers, glancing around conspiratorially, as if it’s a secret.

“You do? What is it?” Malcolm asks, tears forgotten as he looks his father over for a clue.

Martin reaches behind himself and pulls something free from the back of his belt, presenting it to Malcolm with a flourish.

It’s a dagger, a full-sized dagger, like the one his father and Gil carry. It has a simple, straight blade, and black leather wrapped around the handle, with a circular pommel. The only decoration is a deep blue stone set into the center of the pommel. It has a sheath as well, black leather matching that on the handle, tipped with simple steel matching the metal of the dagger as well. Despite its simplicity, Malcolm thinks that it might be the most beautiful dagger he’s ever seen.

“Thank you, father!” he cries out, and he nearly throws his arms around him in his excitement, but he refrains, reaching out to take the dagger from his father’s hands instead.

It’s perfectly balanced, a little heavy in his hands, but not too large for him to wield.

“I’m sure Sir Arroyo will be happy to give you some tips on how best to use it. It’s about time you have a real weapon. But uh, don’t tell your mother for now, okay? It can be our little secret,” his father urges.

Malcolm nods, still looking down at the dagger, taking in every detail.

His father ruffles his curls with a chuckle, then steps away, calling for their party to mount up. Malcolm secures the knife carefully to his belt and pulls himself quickly into his saddle, glancing around to be sure that he isn’t the last to mount, that he isn't keeping everyone else waiting. He breathes a small sigh of relief to see that he’s not.

“Malcolm, up here, son,” his father calls out from the lead of the party and Malcolm urges his horse forward to join him.

“Ready, my boy?”

Malcolm nods enthusiastically, gripping his reins tightly in hand to keep himself from shaking with excitement.

His father clicks his tongue at his own mount and they set out, through the castle gates and into the countryside.

His father estimates that the journey to Ceron will take the better part of five days, if the weather holds and no mishaps occur. Martin doesn’t say it, but Malcolm suspects that he’s expecting some delay, likely because of Malcolm. He’s determined not to let that happen.

The first few days go by quickly enough. Malcolm is surprised to see the change in his father when they’re away from the castle walls. He’s never been as stringent about decorum and formalities as his mother is, but he is the king and he takes his role and title seriously, and expects others to do the same. But here on the road, with only his most trusted knights, he seems lighter, looser. He smiles more, laughs loudly and freely at bawdy jokes that only make Malcolm blush the first few times he hears them. By the end of the first day he’s telling a few of his own.

Gil seems lighter, too. He laughs and jests along with the other knights, they have races along the road or test each other’s skills of memory or observation with riddles and puzzles. Malcolm realizes that he probably doesn’t have the chance to interact with the other knights this way very often, since he is often stuck in the castle attending to his charge. He feels bad about that realization, and decides to try to find a way to fix it once they get back. He probably doesn’t need a guard with him all the time, not when there are knights all around the castle, anyways.

Gil’s not only more open with the other knights, he’s more open with Malcolm, too. When Malcolm is unsure of his place within the group, keeping quietly to his father’s side, Gil draws him into conversation, including him in some of the riddles and drawing him into the group at large. And as his father had predicted, Gil eagerly takes it upon himself to train Malcolm how best to use his dagger. 

When they pause for the midday meal or a short break throughout the day, the knight reviews what Malcolm has already learned, and in the evenings after they set up camp he teaches Malcolm something new. It starts simply enough—how to grip properly, how to draw the blade quickly, how to stand properly. Gil makes him practice with both his right and left hands even though his left hand is clumsy and weak. But, Gil promises that once he’s just as skilled with his left hand as his right the knight will teach him to use two blades at once, so Malcolm practices twice as hard on his weaker side.

For the most part Malcolm enjoys life on the road. It’s hard work, but each task is simple. He doesn’t mind spending the day under the harsh glare of the sun or sleeping on the ground in the open air, and he’s usually so exhausted by the end of the day that he’s asleep as soon as he lays his head down. It’s invigorating to be out in the open country, free of the confines of castle walls that never seem to lose their chill or dampness. No one cares if he’s dirty or if his curls are matted with dust. He does miss eating sweets with dinner, but it's a small price to pay.

But by the fourth day the trip begins to wear on him. He’s achy and sore from days in the saddle and from the constant physical activity throughout the day. He gets a sunburn after they stop to swim in a lake and he rides shirtless for the remainder of the day and the skin on his chest and back is tender and tight, stretching uncomfortably beneath his shirt. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t dare, but he’s quiet, riding silently beside his father and only speaking when he must.

Gil notices, Gil  _ always  _ notices. He asks if Malcolm is alright only once, and when Malcolm replies with a short ‘yes’ and a glare he backs off, leaving Malcolm feeling even worse for his poor manners. It’s not Gil’s fault that he’s miserable, he just doesn’t want to have to admit it to anyone.

On their final night they stay at an inn on the outskirts of Ceron’s capital, and Malcolm has never been more grateful to sit at a table, eat a hot meal he didn’t help to prepare himself, or see a real bed. Even the hot bath his father insists that he take is a welcome relief from the days in the saddle. The innkeeper's wife takes one look at his red skin and pulls out a small jar of ointment for him to lather on before he goes to sleep.

He can barely keep his eyes open after his bath, and his father helps him to apply the ointment, rubbing it in gently.

“I’m very proud of you, my boy. You’ve done better than even I could have imagined. You’re so strong, and that strength will serve you well as king.”

Malcolm mumbles a pleased thank you, or at least he thinks he does. He’s drifting off, asleep before his father finishes rubbing the soothing balm into his skin.

# 

The kingdom of Ceron is not so different from Milton, and the capital city, though smaller, is quite similar. Both cities are located on a bay, with bustling ports and thriving markets surrounding the castle proper. 

For most of the journey their party wore plain, hardy clothes suited to travel, but before entering the city they change into their finery and his father pulls his crown from where he’s kept it in a saddle bag. Malcolm has never felt so proud as he does riding into the city at his father’s side, wearing a fine blue tunic with embroidery on the sleeves and neck, his dagger on his hip and his sword hanging from his saddle. The knights are dressed in the royal livery of Milton, and though they wear no armor their weapons are shining in the bright sun.

The castle is situated on a small rise, high enough to provide a vantage point over the whole of the city, and high enough that Malcolm can look out over the bay as well. As he does his eyes grow wide, mouth dropping open as he catches sight of the gray, blurred shapes rising into the sky on the other side of the bay.

“Are those… mountains?” he asks in awe.

Gil rides up beside him and looks across the bay as well, a wide smile on his face.

“Yes, sire. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“They’re amazing!” Malcolm exclaims. He turns to Gil, realization dawning. “You lived in the mountains to the north, didn’t you? Were they mountains like these?

Gil nods in confirmation. “But bigger,” he adds.

“Bigger?” Malcolm nearly shouts, barely able to believe it.

“Yes. Those mountains are hardly more than foothills, they lead all the way to the range along Milton’s northern border, where the  _ real  _ mountains are.”

Malcolm knows he looks like a simpleton, sitting there on his horse with his mouth open and his eyes wide, but in that moment he doesn’t care.

“Someday, you’ll see those mountains, too, sire. But come now, it's time to give that horse of yours a rest. Let’s catch up before your father starts to worry.”

At Gil’s words, Malcolm realizes that the rest of their party has long since moved on, and he flushes, guiding his horse onwards, glancing back often at the tall gray peaks in the distance.

Meeting King George Taylor and his son, Prince Cal, is a surreal experience for Malcolm. He watches his father closely for cues as to how he should behave as they approach the castle, unsure of what is expected of him. But what he sees as his father greets the other King confuses him. 

From the moment his father dismounts in the castle courtyard there is an undeniable tension about him that Malcolm can’t explain. It isn’t obvious. He smiles, and it looks genuine enough, as he and King George grasp forearms in a show of solidarity between their two kingdoms. But Malcolm can see that the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and the pleasantries he exchanges with King George are formal, forced even. King George’s reactions are harder to gauge. He’s reserved, but seems pleased by their arrival; his manner is welcoming enough and his questions about their journey sound genuine. If he notices anything off about Martin’s behavior he certainly doesn’t show it.

Martin had been so enthusiastic about this trip, so thrilled at the prospect of meeting with King George face to face to discuss trade agreements that would benefit both of their kingdoms, but now Malcolm isn’t sure what to think, or what to expect from their visit to Ceron.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts as he watches his father that Malcolm forgets about Prince Cal until the older boy is standing in front of him, offering his hand politely.

“Hello. I’m Cal, and you must be Malcolm. Welcome to Ceron,” he says, and while his tone is proper and polite he’s smiling widely, eyes alight with excitement.

Malcolm can’t help but return the other prince’s smile, all thoughts of his father’s strange behavior forgotten as he shakes Cal’s hand. 

“Thank you, Prince Cal. I’m very happy to be here. Your kingdom is beautiful!” Malcolm replies.

“Just Cal is fine, if you don’t mind me calling you Malcolm.”

His father summons him before Malcolm can reply, but he smiles back his agreement as he makes his way to where the two kings are standing. Malcolm likes the other prince already, and hopes they can become friends during his visit.

# 

By the time night falls, Malcolm is exhausted. After arriving at Ceron they’d spent the remainder of the day in a whirlwind of introductions and courtly formalities. They had time for a brief rest before dinner that was hardly long enough to be refreshing before an evening full of food and entertainment in a large hall so full of noise and activity that it made Malcolm’s head spin. 

He sits between his father and Prince Cal, who spends the evening pointing out the most interesting people in attendance and sharing all the juiciest bits of gossip about them that he knows. Cal is a skilled storyteller and Malcolm finds it hard not to laugh aloud at some of his more bawdy tales of the noble’s escapades throughout the castle.

Soon after dinner is cleared and the evening’s entertainment begins, Malcolm begins to drift off, struggling to keep his eyes open and his head from drooping against his chest or the back of his chair. His father notices almost immediately, and gives him a kind smile before beckoning to Gil. He whispers something into the knight’s ear, and Malcolm notices that Gil’s face grows somber, his eyes more watchful as he nods in understanding. 

“Malcolm, why don’t you go to bed? There’s no need for you to stay any longer,” his father suggests.

Malcolm nods, too tired to pretend like he doesn’t want to do just that. He bids Cal and King George polite goodbye and makes his way towards the guest chambers. Gil follows close behind, a silent shadow he’s grown used to over the last year or so since he became a knight and his father offered him the position of Malcolm’s personal guard. 

When Gil follows him into his chambers, Malcolm pauses.

“Gil? Is something wrong?” Malcolm asks around a yawn.

The knight has never stayed with him before and Malcolm knows he was assigned his own room nearby. 

Gil hesitates, indecision clear in his face as he considers his answer. 

“Your father expressed some… concerns… about your safety during our time in Ceron. He felt it prudent that I stay close by, at all times.”

Malcolm drops into a chair, surprised.

“My safety? Why? Has there been a threat?” he asks, heart suddenly racing faster than it had been.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been attacked.

Gil shakes his head emphatically. “No, sire, no threat. You shouldn’t worry. That’s my job. The king only wants to be sure.”

Malcolm takes a deep, calming breath, nodding his thanks to the knight. He trusts Gil, both to tell him the truth, and to protect him if something does happen.

He begins to undress before pausing once more and looking around the room.

“Where will you sleep?” he asks, concerned once more. “My father can’t expect you to sleep on the floor during our entire visit, can he?”

“No, of course not. There’s an antechamber, just through here. If you had a manservant that’s where he’d stay, but since you don’t it leaves the bed free for me,” Gil explains, opening a door Malcolm hadn’t paid any heed to before. 

“Oh. That’s good then,” he murmurs, yawning again. 

He’s down to just his shirt and small clothes and decides it's good enough and drags himself into the bed.

“Good night, Gil. Thank you for watching over me,” he whispers, drifting off to sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

# 


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as Malcolm wakes up his body is thrumming with excitement. While yesterday was full of tedium and formality, the day ahead promises to be much more enjoyable. He’s to spend most of it with Cal, touring the castle and its grounds, meeting some of the Ceron knights, and doing whatever else it is that princes do together. At the start of the new week he is expected to join Cal for his lessons and settle into a regular schedule for the remainder of their time in Ceron, but for the next few days both boys are free to do as they please.

He breaks his fast with his father, King George, and Cal. Ceron has no queen. Cal’s mother had died shortly after his birth and the king had never remarried. But, Malcolm had seen many children their age at the dinner the night before, and even if Cal has no siblings of his own it's unlikely that he’s lonely. Still, Malcolm can’t imagine life without his mother, or Ainsley either. Even when they are vexing he loves them dearly, and he hasn’t admitted it to anyone but he misses them already. 

Breakfast is a simple but pleasant meal. Cal tells him all about the things he has planned for them to do that day, and Malcolm only grows more excited by the moment. His father seems more himself as well and he and King George chat amiably about old times and mutual acquaintances. Malcolm’s uncertainty about his father’s behavior or concerns for his safety are forgotten in the light of a new day.

He and Cal ask to be dismissed as soon as is proper, then rush outside. Cal begins his tour of the castle and its grounds at the stables, continuing on to the kennels— there is a litter of new puppies that captures their attention for nearly half an hour— and mews. Cal leads him back into the castle by a small side door and continues to guide Malcolm to each of his favorite places. 

Malcolm has already seen the throne room and Great Hall and sleeping quarters, but Cal shows him the kitchens and armory, where several older knights and their squires are gathered, cleaning armor and weaponry. They stand when the boys enter but Cal scoffs, waving them down with a chagrined smile. They’re smiling, too, and Malcolm guesses that their show of reverence to the young prince is more out of jest than actual necessity. They don’t shoo them off, either, and Cal starts up a lively debate with one of the younger squires. Malcolm stands back, suddenly shy in the presence of so many strangers.

“And who’s this now, Prince Cal? A new friend?” one of the men calls out.

Malcolm shuffles his feet, blushing in the face of the attention suddenly directed towards him. Cal is at his side in an instant, clapping him on the shoulder with a wide grin.

“This is Prince Malcolm, from Milton! He’s here with his father, and they’re staying two weeks, and yes, he is a new friend.”

Malcolm’s face splits into a wide grin at Cal’s words and he smiles proudly at being called the Prince’s friend, feeling suddenly included in the group rather than like an outsider. The men offer a chorus of greetings and Malcolm nods at them each in turn. He can’t help but notice that one or two of the men cast interested glances past Malcolm to where he knows Gil is standing off to the side, his silent shadow as always. Malcolm feels a stab of guilt remembering that Gil is stuck sleeping in his chambers during their trip and determines to tell him that he won’t tell if Gil sneaks off for a night or two.

They don’t stay much longer. Cal pulls him along eagerly, leading him down a hall to a door that opens out onto a wide section of the castle wall. They walk along it to a flight of stairs and up towards a tower. It isn’t the highest point of the castle, but it is on the outermost edge of the building and offers an unobstructed view of the bay and the mountains in the distance.

“This is my favorite tower,” Cal announces. “It has the best view of the sunset over the bay, and you can see all the fishing boats coming into the harbor for the evening.”

“It's amazing!” Malcolm exclaims, walking from one end of the tower to the other, looking as far as he can in every direction. “Have you been to the mountains?” he asks, turning back to Cal.

“Yes! We go nearly every year.”

Malcolm sighs wistfully. “I wish our mountains were closer. This is the first time I’ve ever seen any,” he admits.

“Your very first?” Cal exclaims. 

Malcolm nods.

“Well then I’m even more glad you came to visit!” Cal tells him, slinging an arm around his shoulders as they look out together towards the mountains.

Malcolm and Cal become inseparable. Malcolm worries at first that he's being a nuisance, following the older prince around like a lost puppy with nowhere to go. When they come across two older boys who are obviously friends with Cal, Malcolm quietly offers to see himself back to the castle. He doesn't want Cal to feel tied down by his presence and assures him that he's perfectly content reading a book. Cal refuses quickly and suggests that they all head down to the training grounds together. Malcolm watches the other boys closely for any hint that they may be displeased with his inclusion in the group but there are none. They are polite and engaging, and soon there is an easy camaraderie between all of them.

Cal is a natural leader. He's friendly and honest, comfortable enough with himself and his station that he doesn't feel the need to lord it over those around him. It's clear that the people of Ceron not only love him but also respect him already despite his youth. Malcolm determines to learn all he can from the older boy during his visit.

_ His _ people love him, of that he has no doubt, but he still struggles to earn their respect at times. He is young of course, and he knows it. But there are times when he feels that his youth and small stature are all that people see. He isn't as aggressive in asserting his authority as his father can be. On the handful of occasions when he has had to confront older, bigger boys about their behavior he has resorted to his wit and intelligence more so than any physical skill he may possess. It usually works, but only because they know he's the prince. Malcolm doesn't want to have to rely on his position, he wants his people to respect him because he's a good man and a worthy leader. 

Cal leads them to a small field with targets set up on one end that Malcolm assumes to be an archery range, though the targets seem rather close. To his surprise the other boys pick up small axes and begin hefting them in their hands, testing the weight and balance skillfully. 

Malcolm stands back and watches, curiosity mounting with each passing moment as the boys line up at the head of the field and begin throwing the axes at the targets.

Gil joins him, watching just as intently.

"Can you do that?" Malcolm whispers.

"Not well, but I've seen it done. It's a skill many seafarers have. Those knights who serve Lords along the coast know how. I never needed to learn where we were posted," Gil explains.

"Why do those on the coast need to learn?"

"It's not practical to shoot a bow on board a ship," Gil explains. "Axes are better for close range combat."

Malcolm nods in understanding. He'd never thought about fighting at sea. None of Milton's enemies have a navy and their own fleet of warships, though large enough to defend their many miles of coast lands is spread thin across those miles. Ceron, in contrast, possesses the strongest navy of all the southern kingdoms because it is concentrated in one area, defending their bay and more importantly access to the river which flows through the rest of the continent.

He watches, notes the way that the boys hold the axes, how far back they draw their arms and the way they step forward, putting their whole body behind the throw, flicking their wrists just so as they release the weapons and send them flying, turning over just enough times before burying the heads in the targets. They don’t always hit the center, but they rarely miss the target itself, which is impressive enough to Malcolm.

After a few minutes of practice Cal turns back to Malcolm and Gil and beckons them over.

“Would you like to try? I’m not a very good teacher, but I can explain the basics.”

Malcolm nods enthusiastically.

Cal hands him an axe and positions him in front of one of the targets. 

“The first step is hitting the target with the right end of the axe. Aiming can come after that. Start here, and we’ll see where the axe hits, then adjust your stance from there.”

He guides Malcolm through the motions of bringing his hand back, shows him how to hold his wrist properly and when to let go. Then he steps back and gives him an encouraging nod.

“Alright then, let’s see where it lands!” he exclaims.

Malcolm takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous as everyone stands about, waiting and watching him.  _ Can’t learn until you try _ , he tells himself, then throws the axe. To his delight it hits the target, near the bottom, but he’d feared worse. Unfortunately the handle is what strikes and not the head and the axe bounces off with a thud. His shoulders slump slightly in defeat, expecting a round of snickers from the other boys. But they only nod sagely, commenting about distance and form, and then Cal pulls him backward a step or two and tells him to try again.

This time the axe head hits and even cuts into the target a bit, but his throw hadn’t been strong enough for it to stick. He’s thrilled nonetheless, smiley widely at Cal and up at Gil.

They spend most of the afternoon at the range, tossing axes until Malcolm thinks his arm might fall off. He tries switching hands once, but it goes so poorly that even he laughs at the sorry attempt, and he doesn’t bother trying again.

Gil gives it a go, too, and Malcolm isn’t at all surprised when he succeeds on his first try. The sharp point of the axe blade sinks deep into the target, up and to the right of center but not by much. The other boys whistle or clap, impressed at the display. Gil even blushes a little, pleased with himself and the response he gets. Malcolm beams at him, proud of his knight, one of the very best in Milton.

They return to the castle in time to prepare for the evening meal, and Malcolm can’t remember a time he’s felt more content.

The next morning is a lazy one. The two kings are setting off early for a tour of the surrounding area, leaving the princes behind to their own devices, and both Malcolm and Cal agree to sleeping in, eating breakfast at their own leisure and meeting sometime before midday.

Malcolm wakes early anyways, and though he lazes in bed for an hour or so, he quickly grows bored. He situates himself next to a window and reads a book Cal had lent him the night before.

It’s not ’til their breakfast is delivered that Gil stumbles out of the antechamber, shirtless and with hair still mussed from sleep. Malcolm hides his smile at the knight’s dishevelled appearance behind his book. Gil’s never been a layabout, but he sleeps like the dead when given the opportunity.

A kitchen maid delivers their food, and she blushes when she sees Gil but doesn’t flirt outrageously as many of the maids are known to do—most in jest, some with intent. Behind her comes a young man lugging a basket of firewood in one hand and a basket of candles in the other. When he blushes as well, Malcolm takes notice. 

He’s younger than Gil by two years at least, and though he’s slightly built he’s strong, if the muscles shifting and flexing beneath his sleeves are any indication. He’s fair, with sandy blond hair and freckles across his cheeks. Gil notices him, that much is clear, but he doesn’t do much more than acknowledge his presence, raising an unimpressed eyebrow when the younger man fumbles with the firewood he’s stacking. 

Malcolm sighs quietly. It's not as if a shirtless knight is a rare sight within a castle. But... Gil’s skin is naturally tanned, and their journey had made it even more so, and his hair is long and dark, unlike most who live along the southern coast who wear their hair short because of the wind and the heat, often bleached blonde by the sun. Whatever the case may be, it's clear that Gil has his pick of admirers within the castle. Which reminds him…

The attendant manages to leave without dropping anything or catching the room on fire. Malcolm waits ‘til he’s gone to broach the subject.

“He seemed nice,” he comments airily.

Gil gives him an unimpressed look and takes another bite of his breakfast.

“I know my father told you to stay with me, but if you found somewhere better to be some evening, I wouldn’t tell him,” Malcolm continues.

Gil raises an equally unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m not going to disobey an order from the king, and risk your safety, for an evening of...  _ companionship _ .”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. “I could lock the door behind you! I’d be fine!” he insists.

Gil shakes his head, takes another bite and doesn’t comment any further.

Malcolm lets it go, for now.

He spends his day with Cal once more. This time, they take their horses out for a tour of the town and surrounding countryside. The weather is perfect, the breeze from the sea the ideal counterpoint to the heat from the sun. Malcolm can’t remember the last time he had a day free to himself, to do as he pleases with no responsibilities or judgement. 

With no one around but their contingent of guards, he and Cal race along the beach, chasing seagulls running away from the waves. They climb rocks and jump off outcroppings into the water below, let the waves carry them back to shore and repeat the process, over and over again until they’re both exhausted, flopping on their backs in the sand and dozing beneath the sun. They rinse off in a clear, freshwater stream that flows into the ocean and then lay on the banks a while longer, letting the breeze and the sunlight dry their skin.

By the time they return for dinner they're both a little red from the sun and Malcolm’s hair is a windswept mess of tangled curls. Gil takes one look at him after he’s prepared himself for dinner and nearly laughs aloud, barely hiding it behind his hand.

“Mother usually fixes it for me,” Malcolm mutters petulantly. He knows it’s a mess. He’d tried to comb it out but that had only made if worse, puffing it up in all directions.

“I may have something that will help,” Gil tells him, slipping into his little alcove and returning a moment later with a small jar.

Malcolm eyes it curiously, but doesn’t ask any questions. He’s willing to try anything to tame the birdsnest his hair has turned into. Gil wets his hair with water from a pitcher, then works some of whatever is in his little jar into the curls. 

“There. You look nearly presentable now. Now let’s go, best not to keep two kings waiting on one prince.”

His father gives him a Look—one slightly raised eyebrow—when he appears for dinner, but says nothing. He smiles even, that smile he saves just for Malcolm. Malcolm returns it, still too high off the day's activities to care much about his hair or anything else. And he’s starving, more interested in eating than talking.

The two kings are not as talkative as they had been the night previous, either. But they’d been out all day, too, and Malcolm thinks they must be as worn out and hungry as he is and thinks little of it. Overall, dinner is a quiet affair, but not uncomfortably so. Both George and Martin ask about their day, and share brief stories from their own outing as well. 

As they finish eating Martin leans over to whisper in Malcolm’s ear. “My boy, how about a story before bed. I feel as if I haven’t seen you at all these past two days.”

Malcolm beams back at him, nodding enthusiastically. His father is a wonderful storyteller, whether he be spinning his own tales or reading from a book, the telling is always dramatic. 

“Alright, let’s excuse ourselves, then, shall we?” Martin asks with a twinkle in his eye, clapping a hand over Malcolm’s shoulder before turning back to King George.

His father makes their excuses and Malcolm says good night to Cal, then follows his father through the halls to his chambers, unable to think of a better ending to a perfect day.

Somehow, even a regular day filled with lessons and meetings is an exciting prospect when taking place in a new context. While Malcolm would usually be dragging his feet as the new week dawned, he’s awake and ready with hardly any prompting. He joins his father and the Taylors for breakfast once more, then Cal leads him off to the library where he attends lessons with his tutors. The princes are meant to spend the morning there, then join their father’s after lunch, to witness the negotiations. 

The morning goes by quickly. Malcolm is familiar with some of the topics that Cal is studying, though not all, so he mostly sits to the side, eager to learn when he can and happy to simply observe when he cannot.

They eat together in the library, away from the books and manuscripts and lesson notes, then make their way through the halls to the council chamber where their fathers are sequestered.

Two guards stand outside the door, and as the boys approach they step in front of the entrance, barring the way.

“Their Majesties have ordered that they are not to be disturbed,” one of the men says imperiously, staring straight ahead.

Cal steps forward, head held high.

“We’re meant to join our fathers for the afternoon. They requested our presence,” he counters.

“Not anymore, sire,” the guard replies, and he looks down at them, expression softening. “They specifically ordered  _ not _ to let you in. I believe the negotiations may be more… complicated… than they originally anticipated. They instructed that you return to your lessons and come back tomorrow afternoon instead.”

Cal nods slowly, looking confused, but accepting, then sets off down the hall.

“Well, that’s that then, I guess. Come on Mal, let’s go see what sort of trouble we can get into this afternoon!”

Malcolm hurries along after him, equally confused. “But I thought he said we’re to continue our lessons!”

“My tutors will be gone for the day already! Besides, there’s more than one type of lesson for a prince to learn!” Cal replies.

They end up outside on the training fields, watching the knights train, trying some of the moves on each other. The knights who had traveled with them from Milton are there as well, training together off to the side and Gil joins them. The Milton knights and Ceron knights are friendly, but don’t mingle much, Malcolm notices. Occasionally they’ll call out suggestions or praise, but for the most part they keep to themselves.

When the Milton knights begin to practice their unarmed combat, Cal looks intrigued. 

“Have you learned to wrestle?” Malcolm asks, noticing the looks the other prince continues to cast towards the Milton knights.

“Not like  _ that _ ,” Cal admits.

Malcolm grabs his wrist and leads him over.

“Prince Cal and I would like to join you, if we may?” he tells the knights.

They pause, startled. Gil shakes his head in chagrin, but says nothing. Malcolm refuses to back down. What’s the point of being a prince if you can’t get your way at least some of the time?

Sir Godfrey, the senior knight present, finally nods. They pair up once more, and Malcolm and Cal follow suit. Malcolm teaches Cal some of the few basics that he’s learned—how to take a firm stance, how to use an enemy’s momentum against them, an especially useful skill when your opponent is larger than you.

They spend the rest of their afternoon there, thoughts of their fathers forgotten as they train.

The two kings aren’t present at dinner, and the boys end up taking their meal in Cal’s room. There’s an awkward moment as they settle in, each wondering what could be so serious that their fathers would sequester themselves away so completely.

“I’ve been reading the book you gave me,” Malcolm says, breaking the silence.

Cal’s face lights up, and they launch into an excited discussion about their favorite books and areas of study. 

Malcolm finally takes his leave for the evening and steps out into the hall. Gil is there, leaning against the wall patiently. Usually the knight would wait for Malcolm in the room, sequestering himself in a corner with a book or whetstone, but after he’d finished his meal he’d excused himself and stepped out into the hall. Malcolm hadn’t thought much of it when Gil had left, but as he glances past Gil down the hall he sees the back of a familiar figure, small and blond, and Malcolm suddenly understands Gil’s interest in spending his time waiting in the hallway.

He casts his knight a sidelong glance, but Gil is too busy looking studiously away from him to notice. Malcolm shakes his head the whole way back to his chambers.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day is much the same. The royal families break their fast together, and though the kings act civilly enough towards each other, they barely speak. They send the boys off to their lessons and promise to see them in the afternoon.

Malcolm is much more distracted than usual during the morning lessons. He finds a book and pretends to read, but his mind drifts constantly to the meeting between the kings and what could possibly be causing such tension. 

By the time they make their way towards the council chamber, he’s thought of a dozen possibilities, each of them more disastrous than the last.

The same guards stand in front of the door as the day before, and as soon as they see the boys approaching they begin to shake their heads.

“Again?” Cal asks.

“Their majesties were very clear that they were not to be disturbed. They send their apologies.”

Cal huffs and grabs Malcolm by the wrist, pulling him back down the hall. He stops after they turn a corner and looks at Gil.

“Sir Arroyo, could you… would you watch the hall for us?” he asks hesitantly. 

Gil looks between the two of them consideringly, sighs the sigh of a man long afflicted, then nods once.

“I’d rather know where you are then have you give me the slip, which I’ve no doubt you could do. Promise me you won’t go anywhere else without telling me.”

Cal nods. “I give you my word. Let’s go,” he says, tugging Malcolm along once more.

“Cal, what—” Malcolm begins but Cal shushes him before glancing down into a smaller corridor leading to a single door.

“All clear,” he whispers, then heads towards the door.

“Cal, what are we doing?” Malcolm asks, whispering as well though he doesn’t know why.

“I’m sick of all this secrecy. I want to know what’s going on in there,” Cal admits. 

He tries the door handle but it seems to be locked. He shrugs, reaches into a pouch hanging from his belt and pulls out a thin piece of metal.

“Are you picking the lock?” Malcolm gasps.

Cal scowls at him. “What if I am? It’s my castle.”

Malcolm opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again. Cal has a point, and it’s not as if he’s never broken into someplace where he isn’t supposed to be. Besides, he desperately wants to know what’s going on in there, too.

The lock springs free easily and Cal pulls the door open. There’s a steep, narrow stairway beyond and he cautions Malcolm to be quiet once more before heading quickly but quietly up the stairs. Malcolm follows, his heart pounding in his chest so loudly he’s sure it must be echoing through the stairwell. He can’t imagine how angry his father would be if he found out that Malcolm was sneaking in where he’d been explicitly told not to go. He only hopes that Cal knows what he’s doing. 

There’s no door at the top of the staircase. They let out onto a narrow balcony surrounded by a railing made of thick slats placed close enough together that it's nearly impossible to see through them. Cal drops to a crouch near the top of the stairs, going to his belly when he reaches the balcony and sliding along to the front. Malcolm follows suit, crawling up the last few stairs and forward until he’s laying beside Cal.

He can’t see what’s below them, but he can hear what’s going on perfectly well.

His father is yelling, snarling in anger and disgust. It’s a tone he’s never heard in the king’s voice before, but he knows without a doubt that it’s him. It ignites a fear deep inside of him that he can’t explain, though, and some part of him wants desperately to turn tail and run. 

Malcolm can feel the blood draining from his face and he looks towards Cal in shock, but the other prince has his face pressed close to the rail as he tries to look down into the room and he doesn’t notice Malcolm’s gaze.

He can hear the words Martin is saying clearly, but they don’t make _sense_. He’s yelling about a river and tariffs and agreements.

King George replies, and though his voice isn’t quite as loud, he sounds just as upset.

“You want to use my port, my locks and canals to access the river, but you don’t want to pay me?” George is saying.

“Of course we’d pay you. But to register every ship, give you full access to their cargos? Would you allow such an encroachment onto your forts or into your warehouses? Why should I pay you if you’ll be free to do with my ships as you please?”

“The fee is set, the conditions are final,” George hisses.

Martin scoffs aloud and Malcolm can practically see his expression without even looking, the way he rolls his eyes when he thinks someone is being foolish or illogical.

“You bade me come all this way only to tell me that your terms are set? That there will be no negotiations?" 

“It is your fault that there’s to be no negotiations on the river passage. You want to send too many ships and you refuse to reconsider!”

The argument continues, both kings hurling accusations and jibes, even threats. The topic shifts from shipping to trade to land use along their border. Malcolm’s feet fall asleep and then his legs but he doesn't move, too entranced by the spectacle below and terrified of being found out.

Finally, after what feels like an age, Cal shuffles back. His face is pale and drawn, a mirror image of the expression Malcolm is sure he also wears. Cal says nothing, just shimmies his way back towards the stairs. Malcolm follows and they descend as quietly as they’d gone up, hardly daring to breathe until they’re back into the corridor with the door shut and locked behind them.

Gil paces the corridor, casting the occasional glance towards the hall where the two princes had disappeared almost an hour ago. He’s starting to worry that letting the boys go off on their own was a horrible decision, though he has no doubt that they would have found a way to escape him anyways. Clearly Prince Cal is familiar with the castle and he would have no problem sneaking off with Malcolm someplace where Gil would never find them. At least now he knows where they are. Somewhat. He’s assuming the hall leads to the council chamber in some way, and that the boys are spying.

Which is another issue altogether. If either of the kings were to catch them, or find him standing alone in the corridor, things would not go well for either Gil or the princes.

And yet, Gil understands. He can't fault the boys for wanting to know what is happening. He has seen the pressure that Malcolm lives under, the expectations that are put on him. In Gil’s opinion, the boy meets and exceeds those expectations. He can’t imagine how difficult it is to be treated as a responsible prince with obligations one moment, and then ignored as a child the next. Malcolm and Martin had spent hours cloistered together in Martin’s study, discussing treaties and trade agreements or studying maps. 

Gil never accompanied the prince inside Martin’s study, of course. In fact, when Malcolm was with his father Gil was generally free to do as he pleased. But Malcolm would talk about it, afterwards. Nothing specific—already he knew the importance of keeping State secrets—but enough that Gil knew the boy was well informed on the topics that were surely being discussed between the two kings. It was no wonder he was so disheartened at being left out. 

So, he understands his small charge's plight. It doesn’t make the risks for himself or the prince any less if they're caught. He can only hope Cal knows what he is doing, and that the boys are clever enough to stay hidden.

With hardly any warning the two boys stumble into the corridor, faces pale and eyes wide. 

"Malcolm!" Gil exclaims, startled by their sudden appearance and their harried expressions. 

Malcolm startles, practically jumping out of his skin and he turns to look at Gil with wide, frightened eyes. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that it's Gil.

"Your highness, what happened?" Gil asks.

The two boys exchange a glance and Gil realizes that whatever it was they heard or saw, it wasn't good. He rests a hand on both boy's shoulders and turns them gently but firmly in the direction of Malcolm’s chambers. They walk in silence and he can feel Malcolm trembling beneath his hand. Finally they reach Malcolm’s room and Gil releases them, pushing the door open and beckoning them inside.

Malcolm collapses into a chair near the fireplace while Cal remains standing but leans heavily against a table. Gil turns to Malcolm, the condition of the younger prince his primary concern. 

“Sire, _Malcolm_ , are you alright?” 

“Y-yes. I’m fine. I—nothing happened, it’s just… Father, he—” Malcolm’s words are stuttered and broken, he’s clearly shaken but Gil relaxes slightly. At least they weren’t caught. 

“I’ve never heard him so angry,” Malcolm says, so softly and Gil can barely hear it. “I don’t, I don’t understand, he—”

Malcolm turns to look at Cal with wide eyes. The older prince hasn’t said anything. He's staring at the floor, brow creased in confusion or consideration, Gil can’t quite tell.

Malcolm speaks up once more, louder this time, his comments directed toward Cal now, not Gil. “He knew before we came. He knew what the terms were, I don’t know why—”

“My lord, not now,” Gil interrupts. He doesn’t know what happened or what words were said by the king, but it’s clear that Malcolm is emotional, and he doesn’t want the young prince to say something he’ll regret.

Cal finally looks up, seemingly noticing Malcolm’s distress for the first time and he straightens, frowning in concern.

“Malcolm, I know! I’m sure, whatever… whatever that was I’m sure it’s not your fault. Or your father’s. Kings just… fight sometimes,” Cal assures him.

Malcolm’s shoulders sag in relief at the other boy's words, and some of the worry drains from his face as well. 

“You don’t blame me? Or… hate me? Or want me gone?” Malcolm asks in a rush.

“No! Of course not! Do you… do you blame me?” Cal asks, suddenly unsure.

“No! Not at all!”

“Oh, good. Well. Good. Then, whatever happens between our fathers, we’ll still be friends, right? We can agree on that, here and now?” Cal asks, dropping his head but looking up at Malcolm hesitantly. 

“Yes! Yes of course!” Malcolm exclaims, rising to his feet. “I don’t ever want to fight like that. There has to be a better way.”

Gil smiles softly at Malcolm’s youthful enthusiasm, his innocent belief in the power of friendship and diplomacy still strong despite his father’s regular insistence on using force to exert authority and superiority whenever possible. If Malcolm can only manage to hold on to those beliefs then Milton will be a better kingdom for it, of that Gil is certain.

Both boys seem to be recovering from their ordeal, the color returning to their faces, the tension draining from their young shoulders, but it’s nearly time for the boys to join their fathers for dinner, and Gil wants to be sure that Malcolm is alright before that happens.

“Your majesties, I don’t wish to condone lying to your fathers, but, at this point, I think it would be wise if you both agree on a story for how you spent your afternoon,” he suggests as a small part of him dies inside at the thought of lying to not one but two kings.

The boys nod and quickly agree to say that they spent their time in the library. It’s a good alibi, involving only the two of them with no one to confirm or deny except him, and Gil is equal parts impressed and concerned at their cunning.

Prince Cal leaves shortly after and Malcolm sinks back into the chair once more.

“Sire, tell me truly. Are you all right? If your father senses something is wrong, he’ll want to know what it is.”

A small shudder goes through Malcolm and he glances up at Gil with tired eyes.

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice quiet and small. “I don’t know if I can face him yet, if I can pretend like I don’t know what happened.”

“That’s fine, sire. We’ll tell the king you aren’t feeling well.”

Malcolm looks surprised at his easy agreement, the expression quickly turning to relief as a weight seems to lift from his shoulders and he pushes himself from the chair.

“Thank you, Sir Arroyo. I know it must be difficult to lie to the king. I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position. I wasn’t thinking about the effect my actions would have on you,” the young prince says, formal and solemn in his apology.

If it were any other child speaking so seriously Gil might find it humorous—a boy playing at being a man. But Malcolm’s apology is so genuine, his regret at putting Gil in a compromising position so apparent that Gil can’t help but to take him seriously. He bows his head towards Malcolm, hand clasped over his heart. 

“Thank you, sire. I accept your apology,” he replies. He straightens, meeting the boy’s eyes, expression equally solemn. “You are my first concern, Prince Malcolm. Your father charged me with your care above all else. While I’d rather not lie to fulfill that duty, I’ll always do what’s necessary to protect you, even from yourself.”

It’s a good lesson for the boy to learn. As a ruler his decisions will affect many more people than just himself. Better to learn it now, when Gil is the only one who may suffer, than later, when thousands could.

Malcolm looks thoroughly miserable and Gil decides to take pity on him. He’s gone through enough for the day.

“Now, enough of that,” he says briskly. “You’ve apologized, I’ve accepted, let’s put it behind us and move forward.”

Malcolm nods, face brightening somewhat. He stands, taking a book from a side table and makes his way to the wide windowsill where he likes to read.

Gil steps into the hall and flags down a passing servant, asking them to take word to King Martin that Malcolm isn’t feeling well enough to attend dinner, and to request that their meals be brought to the prince’s room instead.

Malcolm stays by the window, his book laying on his lap loosely. He seems to be lost in thought, his head tilted back listlessly as he stares blankly down into the yard below. It reminds Gil once more of just how much weight the prince carries on his young shoulders, and he wishes he could help, somehow.

A loud, perfunctory knock draws him out of his musings seconds before the door swings open and King Martin himself strides into the room.

“Your Majesty,” Gil exclaims in surprise, straightening where he stands before bowing, hand over his heart in a knight’s salute, but the king waves him off without a second glance. 

His eyes go first to the bed, and, finding it empty, begin sweeping around the room, finally landing on Malcolm. The prince’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t seem to notice his father’s presence at all, though Gil doubts he’s asleep.

“Malcolm, my boy. Are you alright?” Martin asks as he strides over to Malcolm’s side.

Malcolm startles at his father’s voice, eyes going wide for a moment before he manages to shake it off and collect himself.

“Father, yes. I’m sorry, I—” he scrambles to get to his feet, to pay his father the proper respects but Martin stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down and sitting opposite him on the window ledge.

Whatever the man’s faults, he is a good father to Malcolm, when they’re alone and Martin doesn’t have to be king and Malcolm is just his son. Malcolm relaxes under his father’s touch, smiling hesitantly up at him.

“I’m fine, father. I’m just tired, I think,” Malcolm assures him.

Martin looks him over, eyes sharp as they take in every detail. He nods, appeased. “Well, I’m not surprised. You’ve been very busy this week. Be sure to get your rest. I’m afraid our visit must be cut short. We’ll be leaving in the morning.”

Malcolm’s face falls at the news. “So soon? We’ve only just arrived.”

“Yes, I know. But, uh, unfortunately we aren’t able to stay any longer.”

Martin rises then and ruffles Malcolm’s hair gently before turning to leave. He beckons to Gil. 

“A word, Sir Arroyo.”

Gil follows him immediately just outside the door. The easy demeanor the king had maintained while talking to Malcolm is gone. He seems on edge, nervous or upset and unable to stand still, pacing a step or two in either direction before turning to face Gil.

“Tell me truthfully, Sir Arroyo. Malcolm is alright, yes? I know he wants to put up a strong front, for me, but if he’s ill or something happened…”

“No, your majesty!” Gil assures him, keeping his voice low as Martin had. “I believe it’s just as you said, too much excitement, not enough rest.”

“Good, good. That’s… that’s good. Thank you for your vigilance, Sir Arroyo. I know more has been expected of you this trip than usual but it was necessary, for the Prince’s safety. Be wary, tonight. I expect King George is none too pleased with me right now,” Martin says conspiratorially.

Gil’s surprised by his open distrust of their host but is careful not to let it show. He merely nods and assures the king he won’t leave Malcolm’s side. Martin leaves, then, and Gil is left shaking his head at the strange turn of events the evening has taken.

Malcolm is standing in front of the fire, looking small and dejected. 

“I don’t want to leave already,” he whispers.

“I know, your highness. I’m sorry things have turned out this way. But it may be for the best. If what you saw today is any indication, things are not going well between the kings.”

Malcolm nods, sniffling once. “I’ll miss Cal,” he admits.

Gil smiles softly, though Malcolm doesn’t see it. He’s glad the prince has found a friend.

“I’m sure you’ll keep in touch. Perhaps some day soon he can come visit you.”

Malcolm sighs and Gil can see just how wrung out he really is.

“Your dinner will be here soon, sire. Then you can go to bed, put this day behind you.”

“Could I… would you send for a bath, please?” Malcolm asks quietly. It isn’t like him to be so subdued, and Gil’s heart aches for the prince.

“Of course, your highness.”

There’s another knock at the door and this time they wait for Gil to let them in. Two maids bring in their dinner and begin to lay out the two platters, and Malcolm seems to perk up, thanking them politely as he sinks into his chair at the table. Gil asks for the bath to be sent up before joining him to dig into his own dinner.

They eat in silence, and Malcolm’s brow remains furrowed throughout the meal. It’s clear his mind is still fixed on his worries from earlier. Gil sighs quietly and makes a decision.

“Prince Malcolm, I know it isn’t my place. But if you need anyone to talk to, I’d be happy to listen. You shouldn’t have to… to worry alone.”

Malcolm looks up, clearly surprised by Gil’s offer. A flurry of emotions that Gil can’t quite place flash in the prince’s wide, expressive eyes before he finally nods and gives Gil a small smile. 

“Thank you, Gil. I’ll remember that.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some updates have been made to the tags. We wanted to throw out a quick reminder that the Underage tag and the Rape/Non-Con tag are NOT related. 
> 
> The Underage is non-explicit and primarily occurs off screen, and it takes place when the character is 15/16+ years old.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Enjoy the next leg of our hero's journey!

# 

When the castle attendants arrive to prepare Malcolm’s bath, Gil isn’t surprised to see that the last person to enter is Havin, the man he’s been flirting with for the last several days. Havin gives him a discreet smile as he lugs in two buckets of steaming hot water, and Gil’s heart sinks as he realizes he’ll have to say goodbye to the blonde earlier than he’d thought.

He follows the attendants to the door, and Havin lingers, waiting for Gil in the hall.

“I’ll be out in a moment, wait for me?” he whispers. Havin nods, a smile playing on his lips, and Gil's heart sinks further, knowing his news will be less than welcome.

He turns back towards the young prince, who is already stripping out of his shirt, and says, “I’ll just be in the hall, sire. Call for me if you need anything." He ignores the knowing smirk the prince sends his way.

_ Of course _ the prince recognized Havin. He’s surely drawing all sorts of conclusions that a boy his age shouldn’t even be considering. Not for the first time, Gil finds himself questioning the life choices that have led him to this point. He joins the handsome blonde waiting for him in the hallway, shutting the door securely behind him to ensure that no one can sneak in without alerting him, and so that Malcolm won’t hear anything he shouldn’t. 

Havin is waiting, leaning against the wall opposite the door. Gil crosses to him, pins him in with his arms and leans in for a kiss.

“Missed you,” Havin murmurs against his lips and Gil sighs, pulling away. It isn’t fair to draw things out any longer.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” he says without preamble.

Havin moves back as far as the wall will allow and looks up to meet Gil’s eyes, searching them for god knows what before sighing dramatically.

“Well I suppose I knew this wasn’t going to last forever, though I was hoping to get a little more from you than a few kisses,” he says.

Gil chuckles, leaning in once more to plant a quick kiss on Havin’s lips. “We have some time yet,” he whispers, suddenly daring in the face of their shortened time together.

Havin looks up at him, surprised. He’s been the pushy one up to now, urging Gil to take things further in less than secluded moments, and so far Gil has resisted, willing to wait for the right time and place to take things further.

“What did you have in mind?” he whispers.

Gil casts a quick glance down the hall, checking both directions to make sure they’re clear before pressing in close, closer than they’ve dared before and rubbing himself against the other man. “I just… I want to feel you,” he admits, voice low and husky.

Havin grins wickedly, slipping a hand between them to work at the ties of Gil’s trousers, loosening them enough that he can slip his hand in. Gil groans as Havin’s fingers wrap around him, gliding teasingly up and down before squeezing him in a firm grip.

They kiss again, slow and languid, tasting and enjoying each other as Havin’s fingers play teasingly over Gil, leaving him breathless and wanting.

Gil loses track of time, enjoying what moments of intimacy he may with Havin, kissing and touching, their soft, quiet sounds of pleasure filling the air. Eventually, reluctantly, he pulls away.

“Let me… I just need… just a moment,” he moans against Havin’s neck. He has never, ever regretted being Malcolm’s personal guard, or wished for a different position, but there are times when the responsibilities of the job are more demanding than he originally anticipated. Pulling himself away from a willing and eager partner is one of those times. He crosses the hall quickly and opens the door to Malcolm’s room, peeking in quietly.

The young prince is lying peacefully in his bed and in the faint light from the fire and the handful of candles still burning, Gil can see the steady rise and fall of the blankets covering him as he sleeps. Gil turns away with a soft smile, glad to see the boy has found rest after his tumultuous day.

Havin is watching him, a sly smile playing across his own lips as well.

“What?” Gil murmurs as he joins him once more, molding himself against the other man and pressing him against the wall. 

The friction as they rub against each other draws a moan from both men and it’s a long moment before Havin replies. “You care for him. Your little prince.”

Gil nods, humming against Havin’s neck where he’d been kissing.

“He’s a good boy. He’ll be a good man soon enough. Milton is lucky to have him as their Prince.”

“And he’s lucky to have you,” Havin adds. “Most men would do their duty and no more.”

“Perhaps. But he deserves more than just duty. Now, enough about the prince… where were we?”

He leans in for a kiss, long and deep, and they move against each other, chasing their own pleasure, burying desperate moans in kisses and lips pressed against flesh.

A loud, frightened cry pierces through the silence of the evening, coming from inside the prince’s chambers. Gil shoots up, adrenaline spiking sudden and sharp as he rushes towards the door, all thoughts of his own pleasure forgotten. There’s no way anyone could have entered, he would have seen, even as distracted as he was. But suddenly the king’s warnings are replaying in his head and he considers all the other ways an assassin could have entered the room.

If something has happened to Malcolm, while he was having a fumble in the hall, he’ll never forgive himself. 

He rushes into the room, dagger drawn, only to skid to a stop. There’s no one there. Malcolm is in bed still, tossing and turning, whimpering, gasping in fright, locked in a nightmare.

Gil breathes a deep sigh of relief and sheaths his dagger. Just a dream. He turns and sees that Havin has followed him into the room, eyes wide. 

“It’s just a dream, but I should… I should say goodbye now,” Gil says reluctantly.

Havin nods in understanding. “It was a  _ pleasure _ to meet you, Sir Gil Arroyo,” he whispers, that sly smile playing on his lips once more.

Gil leans in, kisses it away, catching Havin’s lower lip between his teeth and tugging as he pulls away. “Don’t forget me. I’m sure I’ll be back,” he grins.

Havin sucks his lip in between his own teeth and smirks. “Oh, I won’t forget you, sir knight. Believe me." With that he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Another loud, frightened cry cuts through the room, pulling Gil from his thoughts and he turns to the bed once more, guilt pooling low in his gut at having allowed himself to be distracted from his charge once more.

Malcolm’s head is turning fitfully on his pillow, limbs twitching. As he draws near Gil realizes the young prince is talking, quiet pleas escaping his lips with each exhale.

“No, please, I’m sorry. Don’t hurt… please. Father. No, let her go…  _ please _ , Father! Help...”

His movements become more violent and he cries out once more, nearly throwing himself from the bed. Gil catches him by the shoulders, pushing him back against the pillows and shaking him gently.

“Malcolm, sire, wake up. You’re dreaming, my lord. It’s just a dream,” he says, voice rising in volume with each word as he tries to pull the boy from his slumber.

He gives him one shake, a little rougher, and Malcolm’s eyes fly open, the low light from the fire reflecting in his wide, panicked gaze as he glances wildly around the room.

“Malcolm, you’re safe. It was just a dream,” Gil whispers softly.

Malcolm looks up at him finally, a ragged breath shaking his whole body.

“Gil!” he sobs, throwing himself into the knight’s arms and clinging tightly to his shoulders.

Gil stiffens in shock at first, but quickly returns the embrace, holding him tightly, able to feel every tremor that goes through his small frame as he cries. It may not be proper, but Malcolm is young, and frightened, and Gil couldn’t dream of denying him comfort after what must have been a terrifying dream.

“My lord, are you alright?” he whispers.

Malcolm shudders, but nods, a movement Gil feels more than sees.

“I was dreaming. Something horrible happened, but I don’t… I don’t remember what. I was just so frightened, I think I was trapped. Or, no. Someone… else? I don’t know,” Malcolm whimpers.

“Shh, hush now. It’s alright. It was just a dream, you don’t need to remember. Don’t think about it. Try to go back to sleep, we’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” Gil soothes.

He loosens his grip and makes to stand but Malcolm clings even tighter to him.

“Please don’t go,” he pleads, so quietly Gil can barely hear it.

Gil sinks back down to the bed. “Okay, I’ll stay. Lay back now, sire. I promise I won’t leave you.”

Malcolm obeys, releasing Gil and laying back down. He finds one of Gil’s hands in the dark and grips tightly to it with one of his own as he settles back down into the pillows. He doesn’t relax immediately, but soon enough his grip on Gil’s hand loosens and sleep overtakes him.

Gil slips carefully away and finally makes it to his own bed. As he prepares himself for slumber and finally crawls between his own sheets, Malcolm’s frightened words replay in his head. He’d thought, when the boy had cried out for his father, that he’d been crying out for comfort, but as he thinks back on the boy's tone, his words, a creeping doubt comes over him, a feeling that Malcolm hadn’t been calling out to his father because he was afraid, but because his father was the one who’d caused the fear in the first place.

# 

Despite the nightmare, Malcolm seems well rested in the morning. He doesn’t say anything about it, so neither does Gil, though he watches the prince closely for any signs that he may still be struggling as he prepares to face his father. There are none. It’s as if the previous day had never happened, and Gil is left wondering just how many secrets Malcolm has tucked away, hidden behind that easy smile and those guileless blue eyes. 

Malcolm joins his father for breakfast, all of his misgivings from the evening before about lying to his father gone. Martin is clearly pleased to see him looking well-rested and healthy, and he even apologizes that they’re cutting their trip so short. Malcolm seems surprised—the king doesn't apologize often—but he accepts it willingly, even going so far as to admit that he misses home and will be glad to return.

They leave not long after. Malcolm insists on going to the stables and preparing his own mount for their departure, just as he had when they’d left Milton. To the young prince’s surprise, Cal is there waiting for them.

“I’d hoped you’d come!” he exclaims, jumping down from where he’d been lounging in the loft. “Father isn’t coming out to see you off, but I wanted to say a proper goodbye.”

Malcolm smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I’m glad you did. I know we’ve only just met, but you’re one of my best friends already,” he admits.

“I feel the same. Oh, and I have something for you,” Cal says, pulling a small throwing axe from his belt and offering it to Malcolm.

Malcolm’s eyes go wide in surprise as he looks down at the weapon, reaching out to take it hesitantly from Cal.

“For me? Are you sure?”

“Of course! To remember me by, and to practice with,” Cal assures him.

Malcolm hefts it, testing the weight and balance as he’d been taught before slipping it into his own belt and turning back to Cal with a wide grin.

“Thank you! But I don’t… I don’t have anything to give you,” he says, face falling.

“That’s alright,” Cal assures him, clapping him on the shoulder. “When I come and see you, you can return the favor. I’m sure our father’s won’t stay mad forever,” the older boy assures him.

Malcolm’s smile returns and the two boys clasp forearms. “’Till next time, Prince Cal of Ceron.”

“I look forward to it, Prince Malcolm of Milton.”

They share a final smile, then Prince Cal ambles off, giving a small wave as he passes through the stable doors.

Malcolm sighs, shoulders dropping for one brief moment as he runs his fingers over the axe in his belt. Then, he collects himself and turns back to his horse and gear and the task of preparing for their departure.

There’s no one to see them off when they leave, just as Cal had said. There’s no fanfare or official farewells to be made. Once their party has gathered in the courtyard, they set out. Malcolm catches sight of Cal, leaning against the stable wall, and the other prince gives a little wave. Malcolm nods, lifting his hand in return before urging his horse forward and joining his father. 

Martin smiles over at Malcolm as he comes alongside him, and Malcolm returns it willingly enough. Then the king’s eyes fall on the axe at Malcolm’s hip and his look turns inquisitive, and though Gil keeps his horse a pace or two behind to allow them their privacy, he can still make out most of their words.

“That’s a fine axe, son,” the king remarks lightly.

“Yes, it was a gift. From Prince Cal,” Malcolm replies evenly.

“Ah. That was kind of him. Did you enjoy your time with the prince?”

Malcolm gives his father a sidelong glance, reading his face and body language for the things he isn’t saying with words. He doesn’t seem to be displeased, but the look of consideration in the king’s eye makes Malcolm wary of his intentions.

“I did. He’s become a good friend.” he replies, emphasizing the word friend. 

Gil can see that the prince is practically daring his father to speak out against the claim and reveal his hand.

Martin smiles down at Malcolm, and though there’s a tightness to it he seems to take the prince’s words in stride. “Good, that’s good. It’s important to have strong relationships with your allies.”

Malcolm hums in agreement, turning to face ahead once more and if he says anything else Gil doesn’t hear.

Their journey home is as uneventful as it had been when they’d come to Ceron, though there’s a palpable tension among the group the first day and into the second, but it fades with each mile as they travel further from Ceron and closer to home. Malcolm shows his father his newly acquired axe throwing skills and Martin seems thrilled, encouraging the prince and even trying his hand at it himself. 

The third day of their journey dawns clear and bright, and both the king and the prince seem to have recovered fully from the events of their final day in Ceron. Malcolm even admits to Gil that he’s working up the nerve to ask his father more directly about their sudden departure.

Gil watches discreetly as Malcolm approaches the king while they ride. They pull away from the group, though not far enough that Gil can’t see their expressions when they turn to speak to each other. He catches the way Martin stiffens in his saddle, the way his face twists in an angry snarl, there and gone again in an instant. Malcolm doesn’t cower or back down from his question, waiting silently for whatever response may come. The king relaxes, the anger and tension disappearing as quickly as it had arrived and he smiles widely before speaking. Gil can’t hear his response, can only see the way Malcolm nods hesitantly, returning his father’s smile, though Gil can see the tension in the way he holds himself for several long minutes more.

Malcolm rides with his father for the rest of the afternoon, until they stop for the evening. He joins Gil in collecting firewood, and though he doesn’t say anything at first, Gil can see that he’s thinking deeply about something. He waits, patiently, makes a few casual observations about the day and their dinner, but doesn’t push. Malcolm will talk when he’s ready.

“My father said it was a disagreement. A failure to see eye to eye on the proposed terms of the new treaty. That both he and King George needed to reassess some things,” Malcolm finally says as they walk back towards their camp. “It makes sense. There’s no reason to stay if they both know that no agreement will be made.”

He speaks the words firmly, but without conviction, and Gil thinks perhaps he’s still trying to convince himself. Not for the first time, Gil wonders exactly what Malcolm overheard, wonders how much the young prince grasps of the politics involved. He doesn’t doubt that Malcolm grasps more than most would believe a boy his age capable of understanding, more than his father thinks. 

It’s a hard age, Gil thinks as he watches Malcolm rejoin the group. It’s clear Malcolm adores his father, that he looks up to him and wants his approval. And yet, he’s beginning to form his own thoughts, independent of what his father may say or do. He’s transitioning from being a boy to being a young man, and in his situation it’s even harder than for most. Gil vows silently once more to be there for the prince in whatever capacity he may need him.

For the rest of the evening Malcolm is playful and bright, having pushed his doubts and fears aside, giving no indication to anyone else in their party that he’d been struggling just hours before. They all settle around the fire, king and prince engaging equally with knights and squires as they eat and tell stories until they each retreat to their bedrolls for the night.

Gil doesn’t know how long he sleeps before the noise wakes him. A plaintive cry, a rustling of blankets nearby. He’s awake in an instant, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dark, the camp lit only by the moon and the low light of the embers still smoldering. His eyes immediately go to where he knows Malcolm is sleeping.  _ Supposed _ to be sleeping.

The prince is moving fitfully, legs twitching beneath his blanket, head tossing on his makeshift pillow. He cries out once more, louder this time, mutters ‘no, please no,’ like he’s begging for his life.

Gil sits up, shuffling over so he’s seated next to the prince and rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly. 

“Sire, wake up. Prince Malcolm,” he whispers, leaning in close to the boy’s ear.

He doesn’t want to wake anyone else, he’s sure the prince would rather not have more witnesses to his fear.

Malcolm whines, turning away from his touch. “‘M sorry, I didn’t… please, no…” he calls out, louder still.

Gil shakes him harder, patting him lightly on the cheek. The king is sleeping not five feet away and Gil is surprised that he hasn’t woken yet, and he hopes to keep it that way. If Malcolm starts crying out for his father… Gil doesn’t want to see what would happen. His theory that Malcolm’s cries during his last nightmare were out of fear of his own father are just a hunch, but now is not the time to have that hunch confirmed by an angry Martin realizing his son knows more than he lets on.

Malcolm gasps, eyes flying open. He stills as soon as he wakes, sucking in a sharp breath, eyes darting around the camp until they fall on Gil.

"Hey, you're alright," Gil whispers, resting a reassuring hand on the crown of the prince's head. "Just another dream, sire."

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, and Gil can feel him tremble beneath his touch.

"I don't understand," Malcolm whispers.

"Nightmares happen, sire."

Malcolm shakes his head, eyes opening to look up at Gil once more.

"Why am I so scared? Why can't I remember?" Malcolm sobs.

Gil sighs, fingers carding gently through the boy's hair.

"I don't know, my lord. Sometimes it just… happens," he answers lamely, at a loss for a better explanation of the sudden onset of the nightmares plaguing the prince.

Malcolm shudders once more, exhaling, long and slow.

"Try to sleep, my lord." Gil urges, shifting to move back to his bedroll.

Malcolm's hand shoots out from under his blanket, grabbing tight to Gil's wrist. "Please stay, " he pleads softly.

Gil settles back down next to Malcolm, laying on his side, propped up on one elbow. He brings his hand to the boy's head once more, fingers moving light and gentle in his hair, soothing him.

"Sleep now, my prince," he murmurs, watching as Malcolm's eyes drift close and his breathing slows. He drifts off, too, waking next to the prince in the pale light of the coming dawn. Malcolm is sleeping soundly, breathes deep and even, body still except for the steady rise and fall of his cheat. 

Gil shuffles back over to his own bed then, settling in to get what more sleep he is able before the sun rises fully and the new day dawns.

# 


	10. Chapter 10

# 

Dinners at the castle aren't always an elaborate affair. They are, however, sometimes quite tedious, especially when his mother decides she needs to invite  _ guests.  _ Which seems to happen a lot more often lately. And for some reason, all their private guests have young daughters around Malcolm’s age. He’ll be fifteen in less than a month, and all the girls range from thirteen to seventeen. And all of them, so far, have driven him mad. 

When they aren’t entertaining large groups of people or off eating on their own, dinner is held in the private dining room that’s smaller than the grand dining chamber and of course, the feast hall. The table is just long enough to fit six people comfortably - more when several of those people are children. 

Normally, when it is just the four of them, Martin makes it a point not to have anyone at the head of the table. They sit side by side and across from one another, Malcolm at his father’s elbow and Ainsley with his mother. 

But nights like tonight, the formalities all snap back into place.

The King and Queen sit at the ends of the table with Malcolm between his mother and a girl his age named Andrea. Andrea’s mother, Lady Elise, sits between her and Martin while Andrea’s father, Lord Glen, and Ainsley sit on the side opposite. Both Jessica and Lady Elise have only spoken about Malcolm and Andrea for the entire meal so far. They espouse their achievements and their talents, the things that both mothers think their children are interested in. Though if his own mother’s ideas about what Malcolm enjoys are anything to go by, Lady Elise is probably a little off on her own child’s interests. 

Malcolm does his best not to drop his head and pout into his soup, already losing his appetite less than halfway through the meal. 

Andrea is nice enough, but quiet, though he could attribute that to being in the presence of her monarchs. She's taller than Malcolm but rail thin with long, ashy brown wavy hair. At least she is a change from most of the young women the Queen has been parading in front of him. Typically they tend to be a bit spoiled and overly sure of themselves. The last family they’d invited is still roaming the castle, their eldest daughter - of five - Madaline, had been the worst yet. At least Andrea is a nice repreive from pushy, conceited, spoiled, wanna-be-princesses. 

Even though the thoughts stay securely within the privacy of his mind, Malcolm feels a pang of guilt about being so cruel with them. He sits up a little straighter and makes more of an attempt to engage with the young lady and her family.

“Andrea,” Malcolm starts during a lull in the conversation between their mothers. “Lady Elise mentioned that you enjoy singing at your estate. Do you have a favorite song?"

All eyes in the room are suddenly turned on them and Malcolm has to fight back the urge to squirm under the attention. 

Andrea shrugs one shoulder and doesn’t look up. “I like… many songs, Your Highness.” Her voice is small and unsure, almost like she’s questioning her own response and she doesn’t say anything else. When the silence lingers just a little too long for comfort, the Queen clears her throat and smiles at the girl.

“Maybe you’d like to sing something for us after dinner, my dear?” 

“Oh, that would be lovely, Andrea.” Lady Elise absolutely  _ beams  _ at her daughter, oblivious to the blush that’s come over the young girl’s cheeks and the way she refuses to look up from the table. The two women begin speaking over their heads about them once more and Malcolm has to take a deep breath to keep from screaming. Across from him Ainsley is silently pouting, like she always does whenever their mother goes into full ‘Malcolm’ mode, but being discreet about it. The king and Lord Glen don’t even seem to notice anyone else, so lost in their own quiet conversation. 

Which means Malcolm doesn’t have any way out, really. And neither does the poor girl beside him. 

He leans over and touches her arm just enough to grab her attention but not be inappropriate. Andrea jumps anyway, though no one else seems to notice. She glances at Malcolm without turning her head and he tries to offer her a reassuring smile. 

“If we want, I don’t think our mothers would object to leaving the meal a little early to go on a walk. Give us a chance to get out of here and I’m not exactly hungry any longer anyway. What do you think?” Malcolm hopes she’ll say yes. He can’t beg off on his own and get away with it. But if they play up the act of actually wanting to get to know one another, there’s no way anyone would say anything against it. Especially the queen, as he’s never shown any interest in anyone she’s brought to these meals before. Not that he’s interested in Andrea, necessarily, he’s just  _ so tired.  _

Andrea gives a silent, but enthusiastic nod and looks like she bites down on a relieved smile. 

“Mother,” Malcolm starts in the middle of the Queen saying something he’d long ago lost the plot for. 

She blinks and trails off then raises a single brow at Malcolm for interrupting. But he doesn’t really care about her ire right this second. He really just wants to get away for once. “May Andrea and I be excused? I’d like to show her the gardens.” 

Thankfully, his question makes all traces of displeasure with his rudeness vanish in an instant. She smiles widely at him and gives a small, knowing look to Lady Elise before focusing fully on Malcolm and Andrea. “Of course, darling. You two run along and enjoy yourselves.”

They make their polite goodbyes, his father giving him a wink on his way out of the door while his sister just looks like she couldn’t wait for him to go. The two of them get along great, and he loves her dearly, but lately she’s been more and more open with her jealousy of all the attention Malcolm gets on a daily basis. 

He’ll need to find a way to start making that up to her. 

Once in the hall and thoroughly out of earshot of their parents Malcolm comes to a stop at an intersection of two halls. 

“I don’t really feel like going to the garden. It was the first thing I thought of though. Want to see the view from the tower?”

Still, even alone, Andrea doesn’t say anything. But her face lights up in excitement with wide eyes and a brilliant smile as she nods, obviously eager. He’ll take that at least. It’s better than the dull, lifeless form she’d presented in the dining room. “Come on,” he says, holding out his elbow. “If we move quickly we can watch the sunset over the horizon.”

He isn’t surprised in the slightest that their walk begins in silence. But unlike before, it seems more natural. Andrea’s gaze scans their surroundings no matter where they go and eventually Malcolm begins to slow their pace so she can take in more details of various tapestries and architectural designs in halls they pass through. Halfway to the tower, he begins to tell her the history of the castle, from its humble beginnings as a small village centuries past to the various design updates and changes that have been made through the years. 

Malcolm is part of one of the longest uninterrupted lines of royalty on the entire continent and he’s proud of the history of the Milton line and everything they’ve built here and throughout the kingdom. 

And more importantly, Andrea eats it all up. 

She even, as they finally reach the top of the last set of internal stairs, opens up and asks a question.

“Do you have a lot of secret passages?”

Malcolm gives her a wide smile and nods. “Loads. Can’t tell you about them all, of course, because then they wouldn’t be secret. But probably my favorite is the one that I can get from the hall near my chambers down to the kitchens without anyone seeing me. Works great for late night cravings.”

For the first time since they were introduced, Andrea breaks out into an audible giggle. Maybe skipping away from dinner was a better idea than he thought.

“What about you? Does your manor have any?”

“A couple,” she nods and walks through the door Malcolm holds open for her that leads onto the battlements that will take them towards the tower. “My favorite isn’t so much a secret as it is just mostly ignored? It’s a hatch that takes you out onto the roof. I suppose it’s for making repairs or something. But the spot it comes out at is where two sections meet and is just a short distance from the stone of the guard tower. So when I sing…” She trails off and looks down at her feet, a blush creeping up over her pale cheeks. 

“I bet it sounds amazing. I know where a good spot for that is here if you’re up for it?”

When she nods, Malcolm leads her past the North East tower and instead on to a section of the walkway that turns and crosses between two walls of different wings. It’s there for easy troop movements in time of war, but right now it’s empty like most of the upper levels and the perfect spot to hopefully recreate what she has at home. 

It turns out to be the best idea he’s had in ages. Andrea slowly opens up more and more until some subtle humming turns into a full out performance of When the Nightingale Sings. The sound of her voice is lovely to begin with, and in the space where every note bounces and echoes off the large expanses of stone, it’s heavenly. Malcolm even joins her on the next song, not as confidently, as he certainly doesn’t consider himself much of a singer, but this place is very forgiving for even his quiet and unsure voice. 

They stay there, swapping songs for stories of their homes and the histories of the buildings - to help keep Andrea engaged - until the sun has long gone down past the horizon. Though they missed viewing the sunset, he doesn’t think either of them minds too terribly much. But there’s a chill beginning to set in and he fears they’ll soon be missed. Especially if someone actually goes to the gardens to look for them. 

“Thank you,” Malcolm says at the end of a long, hard laugh, “for escaping with me.”

Andrea is almost an entirely different person out here where it’s just the two of them. Her voice is still quiet when she isn’t singing but she’s much more sure of herself, a little more open than the terrified girl he’d met at dinner. “I thought I was going to die of embarrassment in there,” she admits after a pause.

Malcolm sighs. “I’ve been through it a time or two, now. Unfortunately, I don’t see it ending any time soon.” His own embarrassment has been higher than ever lately, but he’s never allowed to show it. It would be impolite towards the people he meets and a show of weakness that his father would look down on. And as much as he disagrees with his father lately, he can’t chance any amount of the king’s ire for something so foolish. 

“You know what they’re trying to do, yes?” She frowns, eyes going soft with almost a look of pity in them. Malcolm doesn’t blame her. It’s a pitiable situation. 

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” He knows exactly what they’re trying to do. And he hates it. Malcolm doesn’t understand why his mother is suddenly trying to introduce him to so many young women. He hasn’t liked any of them, and Andrea is the first one he hasn’t outright detested. She’s actually quite nice once she opens up, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to start courting her. The only consolation he has at the moment is that the queen is not actually admitting out loud that he needs to open up and really get to know any of them. But he doesn't dare hope that will last much longer. Not with his mother. 

Andrea sighs and fiddles with the hem of her sleeves. “My mother wanted me on my best behavior. ‘Must impress the prince!’ she said over and over and over. Brought out the finest dresses and every moment of our journey here was nothing but reminders on manners and decorum around royalty. She just knew I was going to screw it up somehow.” Something of her earlier reserved nature begins to slip in again, a sadness in her gaze that Malcolm can’t stand to see returning. 

“I think you’ve just done fine,” Malcolm assures her. Of all the girls he’s met recently she is certainly the only one he’d willingly spend time with again. Even if he isn’t interested in being anything more than friends, that’s far and away more than he could say about all of the others. 

“Well, I appreciate it. But, to be honest…” she seems to fold in on herself again for a moment then something changes. Andrea sighs and her shoulders drop but not in resignation, almost like she’s letting go of some weight that she's been carrying around all evening. Then she laughs, loud and free. “I don’t actually care.”

Whatever it is she’s let go of, Andrea can’t seem to stop. Her laughter is open and all hints of shyness or self doubt seem to vanish with it. 

Malcolm smiles, and waits for her amusement to die down enough he can be heard. “If it makes any difference I’ll be sure to tell your mother you are the first young woman I’ve met recently that actually  _ did  _ make a good impression.”

“Oh, she’ll love that.” Andrea wipes at a hint of moisture that’s gathered at the edges of her eyes and nods, obviously pleased. 

They slowly make their way along the walkway, back towards an area that has a view of the city below. Though it’s dark, fires and torchlight are scattered out in the distance like stars from their spot so high above it all. Once they come to rest just before the door that leads back inside, Malcolm turns to her, a curiosity in his gaze as she stares out over the view. 

“If you don’t care about making good impressions on royalty,” he starts, “which I don’t blame you for in the slightest, what do you care about then?”

“Buildings,” Andrea answers without hesitation and Malcolm makes a noise of surprise but then clears his throat. He really shouldn’t be shocked after their walk up here, but she sounds so enamored with the idea. 

“Can you elaborate?”

“Just… buildings.” She gestures towards the tower that looms off to their right, then back over the building as a whole before finally resting her sight once again out at the town below. “Their histories, their architecture. Why did someone choose to make this roof steeper than that one? Did you know, across the sea they put spires on  _ everything?  _ I’ve seen drawings of them and I’d love to see one in person. And maybe help build something grand one day.” 

“No interest in becoming a princess, then?” He smirks, pretty certain of the answer already. 

“Gods, no.” Suddenly she looks embarrassed and gapes for a moment. “Not that… you’re not uh… well.” 

Malcolm laughs and shakes his head with a wave of his hand. “Please, I take no offense. I don’t even know why my mother is so insistent on me finding someone right now.”

That seems to calm her down, easing the worry in her eyes. “So, friends then?” She offers with a soft smile.

“I think that would be lovely.”

“Good.” Andrea holds out her hand which Malcolm takes in his and shakes as if they’re meeting, truly, for the first time. It’s not the proper way to greet a lady, but a peer. “Then my friends call me Andi. When my mother’s not around, of course.”

“Sounds amazing. Shall I escort you back to your chambers, Lady Andi?” he asks in an exaggerated tone. 

“I would be delighted, Prince Malcolm.”

They walk back into the castle arm and arm, as friends.

  
  
  


# 

  
  


The early morning dew is still clinging to the grass when Gil makes it down to the training field. There’s a bit of a chill in the air that tells of the oncoming winter but it’s not so bad that he feels any need to bundle up. Besides, it will be nice to feel the cool air once he and Malcolm have finished their early morning training. 

Prince Malcolm has progressed quickly with his sword and while he has yet to defeat Gil, he is already making the knight work for his victories. He has begun to develop his own style, his own method of doing things. Malcolm is still small, despite a growth spurt, and sprightly. The prince uses that to his advantage to avoid blows that would be considered match ending - well, most blows actually - which is why Gil has to work so hard to win but Malcolm still hasn’t defeated him. He’s fast enough to get away, but not quite able to get through Gil’s defenses. 

He’s already better than Gil’s squires though they’re almost two years his senior. Gil had taken them on six months prior when they’d arrived in the Capital together. He’d known them as children, play fighting in the streets of the village where he and Sir Turner had been stationed for years. Dani’s father had died in the war with Caid alongside Gil’s father, and when her mother finally passed away, JT - who had always been like a brother to the girl - agreed to escort her to the capital where they both had sought Gil out to train under him. They were lost when they had arrived, and more than a little weary of starting life over again. 

JT and Dani have come alive here, though. They’re loyal and dedicated to learning as much as they can and have already proved to be good friends with the Prince, which is something the young man needs in his life - people who see him as more of a person than a prince. Though they know they must ultimately look to Malcolm for leadership one day, they don’t let him get away with anything. It’s good for all of them. 

Gil takes his time warming up, grabbing a long piece of wood, heavier than his usual weapon, and getting in place in front of one of the pells on the side of the field. He begins striking the tall column of wood in a light handed pattern, over-under, over-under, then switches hands once he starts to feel it in his muscles. Not working up to a burn, just enough to know he’s really moving. By the time he’s built up to much harder blows, there’s a clatter of metal at his side and he pauses to look down where Prince Malcolm has thrown down the training weapons he brought from the armory and is already reaching for his own pell work sword. 

When he looks to Gil, who is frozen with his brows high in question at the unusually bitter demeanor of the prince, Malcolm just shakes his head and sighs. 

He doesn’t start slow like he’s supposed to. No, Malcolm immediately begins beating on the pell as if it had personally insulted the King and Queen.

There’s a giggle from somewhere in the distance, just barely audible between the loud thwacks from Malcolm’s actions.

Gil lowers his arm to scan the edge of the training grounds, spotting a small group of four young girls in fine gowns gathered near one of the walls of the castle that lines the north side of the field. 

“Oh,” he says with a smirk, looking at Malcolm who has his lips pressed together so tightly they’re turning white. “So it’s going to be one of those kinds of days.”

“They’re already here.” The prince smacks the pell three times in rapid succession. “Why are they already here? I thought I had snuck out just fine but they were waiting for me.”

Gil puts a hand out on Malcolm’s arm to stop him beating up on the wood. His form is terrible and he is going to hurt himself if Gil lets him keep going. There are other ways to vent frustration, and it’s actually worrying him a little that the prince is doing it this way. He is usually incredibly cool headed and collected, though Gil figures it’s probably about time the kid had a breakdown. 

“The girls?” he asks the prince without looking in their direction again. 

At Gil’s touch, Malcolm deflates, letting his shoulders and head slump forward before throwing his stick to the ground and rubbing his face in his hands. This isn’t like the prince at all, and Gil frowns.

“Probably bribed someone to give them my schedule for the day.” His voice is muffled beneath his fingers but then he sighs and drops his arms in defeat. “Hell, my mother might have done it for free.”

“What’s your mother got to do with your admirers?” Gil claps Malcolm on the back before moving to rub the kid on the shoulder and guide him away from their audience, grabbing both their wooden practice weapons before moving towards the far side of the field. Though Malcolm has long since moved beyond practicing actual combat with wooden sticks, Gil recognizes that the kid is in no shape to mess around with steel, even blunted steel. 

“She’s trying to introduce me to potential matches that I might like  _ and  _ would be beneficial to the kingdom.” He sounds almost petulant and Gil doesn’t say anything about it, letting him have this moment where he can just be a frustrated kid without judgement. “And they’re all stuck up, snobbish girls. Except Andi, but she just wants to design castles, not live in one.” 

Eventually they make it to the opposite edge from the group of girls and Gil silently positions himself so that Malcolm has his back to them, handing the prince the practice weapon and reaching out to tap it with his own. “Come on, get a hit on me, you’ll feel better,” he says before stepping back and in position.

Thankfully, Malcolm nods and rolls his shoulders, straightening his back and getting his feet spread apart and planted firmly in the ground. Gil breathes a little easier when he maintains good form as he starts to snap his weapon in an arc towards the knight. 

“Didn’t the Queen marry the son of a noble who was one bad year away from being destitute?” Gil parries each of Malcolm’s attempts with quick but loud cracks of wood on wood, one right after the other. 

Malcolm steps back and shakes his head but begins to shift, trying to decide which way to move and attack next. “My grandfather never would have allowed it if my father hadn’t saved his life.”

Gil knows the basics of how Martin had joined the royal family, that the current king had saved the former from a life threatening illness. But, as with most of the people of Milton, the details he’s aware of are rather thin. “What exactly happened?” He’s hoping to keep Malcolm talking, keep him from focusing all that anger and frustration over his current situation into his fighting so he goes in reckless again. 

As he speaks, Malcolm keeps attempting to get a hit on Gil, but the knight either side steps or parries them all. But Malcolm isn’t trying too hard. He’s warming up, like he’s supposed to have done at the pell. “My mother was a little older than I am now and she and my father were inseparable from the day they met out in the palace gardens. Mother even said she’d offered to abdicate her throne to be with him, but father wouldn’t hear of it. Said she shouldn’t give up her life just to be with someone as lowly as he was and that they should simply enjoy their time together while it lasted. Then grandfather got sick.”

“I know that part.” Gil takes a step back, trying to subtly encourage Malcolm into a thrust. The prince goes with the feint and Gil is able to knock his sword away. He doesn’t take a swing at Malcolm, though. Simply settles back into position and waits for his next move. “King Martin knew of some flower that could save him?”

“Not just any flower, either.” Malcolm frowns and drops his sword to his side, but not in a relaxed move. He’s attempting his own misdirection and though Gil can see that much, he must stay alert to see where the feint will come in. “He studies - well, studied - with Simon, who is now our court physician who studied at the university in Caid. Said there was some exotic plant with healing properties that only grew west of the mountains of Atlantia. So father went, got it, brought it back and saved grandfather’s life. The rest is now Milton history.” 

Before Gil can respond, Malcolm is moving quickly again. He attempts to swing up in a large arc then around towards Gil’s back. But Gil moves forward, towards the prince, and then spins around him so they’re facing the opposite direction. Malcolm gets a glancing blow on Gil’s shoulders for his troubles but not enough to be considered good.

A small round of applause and excited shouts drift over from across the field.

“Ugh!” Malcolm looks like he wants to throw his practice sword to the ground at the noise. “What if I don’t even like girls?” he asks through gritted teeth while taking another swing at Gil. It’s loose and sloppy. Gil easily knocks the stick away with his own.

The knight frowns at his prince, worried about how out of sorts he is. Gil never had any issues like this, obviously not with his mother or even worrying about what he liked and didn’t like. He’d known from a young age what he wanted in most aspects of his life, and just accepted any other realizations as they came. But Malcolm is too tense, too worked up over everything and getting him to think anything through clearly while he’s like this would be a fool’s errand. 

So Gil smirks, and asks with a wink. “How would you know if you don’t try?” He knows full well he himself has never once thought of a woman in that way. What he expects from his prince is a blush or a stammer, but Malcolm verbally parries him better than Gil does with a sword.

“Have you?” The prince asks with a suddenly amused glint in his eyes.

It’s better than the scowl he’s worn all morning so far. 

Gil frowns. “Have I what?”

“Tried a girl?”

A laugh bursts from Gil’s chest, loud and unexpected. “Never!” he exclaims, then takes a moment to try and collect himself, standing straight and clearing his throat. "But I was never conflicted, either,” he assures Malcolm in a much more sober tone. “And you don’t actually have to try  _ anything  _ to figure it out. Nor do you need to have it all figured out right now,” Gil assures the prince.

“But I literally have wanna-be princesses being paraded in front of me.” Malcolm gestures behind Gil to the group of girls that Gil notes has grown by two. 

But he shrugs and attempts to make it seem like it isn’t as big of a deal as the prince is making it out to be. “So, then tell your mother you want a prince!”

Malcolm makes another noise of frustration that is very un-prince like indeed. “She wants  _ grandchildren.  _ And not just because I’m expected to have an heir. It’s not like The King and his Consort in Avacal didn’t name their niece to be the Crown Princess or anything. But because she wants me to have  _ babies.  _ Besides, I don’t even know if I want a prince  _ or _ a princess. I just want to learn to fight!”

“Well then, if nothing else, I can help you with that.”

“Thank you, Sir Gil. You are a noble friend indeed.”

“I live to serve.” Gil crosses his practice sword over his heart and bows low. But the moment he does Malcolm taps him on the top of the head with his own. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but it counts, especially without their helms in place. When he pops up to playfully glare at the prince, Malcolm is already trying to bite back on a laugh, his whole upper body shaking with it. Gil flinches forward as if to attack and Malcolm bolts back towards where the rest of their gear is waiting for them and the knight eventually follows at a steady pace, hoping to get some useful practice into Malcolm now that the prince finally seems to have let it all out.

# 


	11. Chapter 11

Gabrielle Le Deux is from far across the sea. She’s a kind and quiet woman, well travelled and sharp witted. Malcolm loves her. Not just for her kind nature, but that she teaches him more than simply some of the dozens of languages she knows. Gabrielle teaches him how to communicate - in any language. He’s learned from her that there’s more to conversations than just being heard, but listening, watching body languages, and hearing what they aren’t saying. It’s a similar lesson to what his father teaches him, but unlike the King, Gabrielle’s lessons aren’t about how to read a person to know how to get what you want from them, but rather simply for the art and enjoyment of conversation. 

He always feels a little lighter leaving her sessions.

Unfortunately, today, that good mood is short-lived.

“Prince Malcolm!” 

Madaline’s voice makes something twist in Malcolm’s stomach before he even turns to see her striding towards him. 

She’s at least two years older than he is, with her long, jet black hair always braided in an intricate weave with strands that frame her face and constantly dressed in gowns more suited to a holiday feast that normal day to day wear. He’s been around court enough to know that it’s a show off, a sign of her wealth and station, that she can wear her finest clothing whenever she desires as it can be readily and easily replaced. She’s aware of her position and status and flaunts it, never saying anything that feels genuine and always bowing to the likes and whims of whoever’s favor she’s attempting to curry. Madaline has also already grown into her more… adult, feminine form and likes to flaunt it as well. 

Malcolm has known her for a week.

He really doesn’t like her. 

“Lady Madaline,” he greets her with a short nod of his head and a polite smile as he has always been taught to do. One must never let others know how one truly feels - even his mother is a fan of the phrase ‘kill them with kindness.’

She beams at him, a simpering smile that makes Malcolm’s stomach curl. “What a coincidence running into you here, your highness.” Madaline dips into a low curtsey, holding out the neverending folds of her deep blue skirt. “I was hoping you would accompany me in a stroll?”

He very seriously doubts it is much of a coincidence. “I would love to, my lady. But I am supposed to be having the mid-day meal with my father.”

“Oh, but that’s not for another hour, still!” she gladly points out. “And he’s on the other side of the castle. A quick detour through the central garden wouldn’t make you tardy at all.” 

For a moment Malcolm considers just flat out telling her no and to leave him alone, but he knows his mother would hear about how he was rude and dismissive to a guest. As much as he doesn’t want to deal with Lady Madaline, he doesn’t want to deal with his mother’s wrath even more. 

“You’re quite right.”  _ Unfortunately.  _ “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” 

She’s been finding ways to corner him since they were introduced at dinner almost a week ago. For some reason, that he blames entirely on sheer persistence, her family hasn’t returned home yet. Despite doing everything in his power to avoid her, to hide, or to sneak away from spots where most people expect him to be, Malcolm still finds himself walking the halls while listening to her incessant chatter.

The worst part is that she is usually going on about topics he rather enjoys. And she’s well educated in the subjects too - or at least enough to fool Malcolm if she’s just repeating things she’s recently learned because she knows he cares about them.

But he can’t figure that out, because she never gives him a chance to speak. 

“The tournament was absolutely splendid, of course. I couldn’t get over all of the colors everywhere, all the beautiful heraldry. Sir Wenerus was absolutely charming. An exemplary knight to all of us who got to meet him. And powerful, too. He won almost every round of the sword and shield list and managed to come out on top in jousting.”

Malcolm knows all of this, of course. He was at that tournament and knows Sir Wenerus well. He also knows that it was Gil who had beaten him in not just sword and shield but at two other events. 

“Did you ha-”

“And I’m sure you remember the feast,” she barrels forward as if Malcolm hadn’t said anything. For someone so well versed in courtly etiquette she doesn’t seem to care about it much when it’s just the two of them. Though to be fair, he tries to avoid that as much as possible. She continues on, waxing poetic about all the food and fanfare that they had celebrated with on the last night, complimenting his mother on her well organized parties and the entertainment. Malcolm tries to pay attention, he really does. But he keeps thinking back to his lessons with Gabrielle and how a good, healthy conversation is a give and take, listening to others while offering up something useful and interesting to the other party. He tries so hard to listen, but it doesn’t seem like Madaline is actually interested in being heard by anyone but herself. 

“Oh!” Suddenly, she stops. 

They’re standing at a juncture in the path that can lead on back to the castle or delve further into the gardens. It’s not really a maze, per se, but the growth gets a little taller as it goes further on and can be fun to explore. Malcolm hopes she’s just having another thought and not about to ask…

“Could we perhaps go see the statue of The Chef?” 

Malcolm tries not to groan, not surprised in the least but then shakes the feeling away. “Consort Caitlin?” He asks with a small smile.

It’s not a well known piece any longer, tucked away in a far corner of the gardens where not many people travel. Many generations ago one of his ancestors - Queen Olivia - had refused to marry another man after the king had died, instead marrying Caitlin who had been their head cook, of all things. It set the precedent for a long line of royals and extended family allowed to choose a spouse based on their own preferences, rather than a need for children. Though they’ve still yet to have another wed outside of the nobility.

The statue is quite beautiful if a little worn now. The folds of her dress look almost real. There’s a bowl of fruit in her lap, and a single slice of apple held out in her delicate fingers. If the softness in her gaze is as loving as Queen Olivia had seen every day, then it’s no wonder she’d fallen for her.

“Of course. I hear it’s lovely.” Madaline says with a sly smile that Malcolm  _ knows  _ is hiding something. But he can’t for the life of him figure out what it might be. 

They make their way through the various collections of flowering bushes and trailing vines that frame walkways and create patches of shadows and quiet corners here and there. It doesn’t take long to make it to their destination and Malcolm smiles when he sees it. He’s always loved this one, dreamed of having someone one day that would share that kind of love with him that would be evident in just their gaze.

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” Madaline sighs and Malcolm actually manages a genuine smile.

“That she was. Loved dearly by her wife and the people as well. And not just for her beauty, but for her giving heart.”

Madaline moves to stand closer to Malcolm, and he tries not to fidget at how uncomfortable he feels, to pay attention to the art in front of them. “Surely you know more about your ancestors than those of us who must learn the lineage by names. How does one win over the heart of a royal?”

Though Malcolm’s mouth feels dry and his stomach twists, he nods. “I don’t know all the details of course, it was over a century ago. But the stories we’re told basically come down to how she cared for the Queen no matter what. She always had an ear for her troubles, and would make sure she always had something special with her meals - something just for her, made with love.” 

She turns to him with an overly saccharine smile and steps in, though he backs away. “Like something sweet?” 

“Lady Madaline…”

“Surely here, just the two of us, we can do away with these silly formalities?” Madaline invades his space, too close for propriety let alone Malcolm’s sanity. His back is suddenly to the garden wall and he realizes no one can see them here. Which is likely why she’d wanted to see the statue in the first place. Gods, he feels like such an idiot. 

“Please, Lady Ma-”

She kisses him, and Malcolm freezes.

Her lips are soft against his and she lingers just a moment but everything in his brain blanks out. He’s unable to move, not because she holds him or even stays too close. In fact, she takes a half step back with her fingers over her mouth hiding a wicked smile. But he’s in shock, wondering what on earth that was supposed to accomplish all while trying to hold back on the queasy feeling in his gut. 

When she _giggles_ , Malcolm has to swallow the bile that fills his throat. 

“Don’t worry, Malcolm. This stays just between us, I swear it.” 

“Right,” he manages, voice barely above a whisper. Finally, she turns away as if embarrassed - though he can see straight through her - and Malcolm manages to clear his throat.

The ice flowing through his veins remains. 

“Maybe we should, keep moving?” He offers weakly. Then he takes a deep breath and remembers he’s a prince. He’s  _ the  _ Prince of Milton. This was just a kiss. His first, sure. Unwanted, absolutely. But… just a kiss, right? Something so simple shouldn’t affect him so horridly. “We don’t want anyone thinking we’re up to something inappropriate out here all alone.” 

“Of course not, your highness.” Malcolm barely notices the way she looks at him, coy and with a quick bat of her eyelashes. 

He quickly affects the kind of demeanor that is expected of him in court. Back straight, head held high. Nothing can bother him when he is a prince. He is above it all. He must not let his emotions show lest someone be able to take advantage of him. His father would expect nothing less than the picture of stoicism and his mother an overwhelming air of regality.

“Then shall we?” He asks with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes while holding out his arm for her to take.

  
  


  
  


Malcolm leaves Madaline at the entrance to the East Wing. He is fairly sure he makes a polite goodbye but he’s in too much of a haze to really be certain. She doesn’t seem too put off though, even if he’s half convinced she’s not really paying any attention to him. Not really, anyway.

Even though he’s still a little early for the mid-day meal he makes his way towards his father’s public study, trying to make sense of what just happened. She had kissed him! It wasn’t  _ unpleasant  _ necessarily, but he didn’t like it either. He’d always expected his first kiss to be something a little more exciting, and definitely with someone he actually wanted to kiss. Not that he wants to kiss anyone. Malcolm stops walking for a second and puts his hand up to his lips, trying to recall anyone he knows right now he’d willingly kiss. A few come to mind that he wouldn’t turn down, but if all kissing is just as confusing and flat as that, what’s the point? 

He shakes away his thoughts and starts moving again, slowing when he rounds the last corner before the King’s study and hears angry voices coming from the cracked door. They’re trying to keep quiet, but the tension between his father and whomever he is arguing with is obvious. 

“Why the hell not?” King Martin sounds furious, something Malcolm has become more and more familiar with as he spends more time around him while he’s actually ruling. It still affects him, still makes him have to fight to not cringe or cower away or think of the way it sets off his nightmares. He never remembers the details, though. Just the overwhelming sense of fear of his own father. 

“Because he died,” the other voice grits out, sounding more angry about the words than regretful.

There’s an obvious sound of flesh on flesh and a soft hiss then his father speaks again, voice almost a growl. “I wanted him brought in  _ alive,  _ John.”

“How is it my fault his heart gave out while I had him tied up?” 

“He was  _ mine _ !” Martin nearly shouts. There’s no way they can realize the door is cracked or they would never be having this conversation, no matter how quiet they’re trying to be. “And now, not only can I not get the information I wanted out of him, I can’t test out my new tools, either.”

There’s a scoff and shuffling of feet. Apparently the man his father had slapped has taken it in stride. “I can always find you another play thing for your experiments, Your Majesty.” Whoever he’s speaking to doesn’t actually sound very deferential, more mocking than anything. He’s never heard anyone talk to his father this way. “Besides, you were going to kill him anyway. He just died a little sooner than you were hoping.”

Malcolm holds a hand to his mouth, tempted to burst through the door and yell at this man for speaking to his father this way. More than that, for saying that his father could do something so horrendous. 

But something holds him back.

A memory.

The book.

A journal full of drawings and detailed figures of bodies torn apart and dying on page after gruesome page. 

And a deep, dark pit.

Blackness.

“That’s not the  _ point.  _ I needed the knowledge he had! There were facts inside his mind I needed to get out before I took it out.” He can hear the way his father grits his teeth, not in an attempt to keep his voice down, but in pure rage. And it’s obvious Martin isn’t furious that whomever he’d needed information from is dead.

He’s bitter that he wasn’t the one to take the man’s life.

“I am certain I can find someone else who knows the inner workings of Trent’s underground tunnels,” the other voice assures him. “And in the meantime, I’ll find you a beggar to play with.”

There’s movement inside the office and the clear sound of something heavy being slammed down on the desk in anger. Malcolm tries to silently back away but his feet are stuck to the ground, his whole body frozen in fear. 

Luckily the man who exits his father’s study slams the door shut behind him so the king won’t be able to see that Malcolm heard every word of that.

When Malcolm looks up, he sees the man staring at him. He recognizes him, from the laundry. Paul, he thinks - though why did his father call him John? 

He had no idea he could feel any smaller, any more terrified than when Paul turns to look at him, something familiar in his eyes, and grins down at the prince. “Little Malcolm…”

Something in his voice sends ice through Malcolm’s veins and he can’t breathe. 

Paul puts a hand to his own side, and stares at Malcolm as he comes closer, looming over him with his extraordinary height and looking grizzly with a full, messy beard and long hair loose around his shoulders. “Good to see you again.”

He doesn’t stop,  _ thank the gods.  _ Instead, he just walks on by as if he hadn’t said anything at all, as if he was addressing a mere servant boy to whom he was far superior in every way.

His voice, his eyes…  _ Little Malcolm.  _

In his chest, Malcom’s heart is racing out of control. He knows he’s heard that all before, and he’s reacting as if he’s in danger, as if something terrible is about to happen but he can’t focus on what, or why. 

He has no idea how long he stands there in shock, willing the tears not to come. If they even well up in his eyes, he won’t be able to stop them, not with the raging storm of confused emotions beating around inside his head. But eventually, the study door swings open and he catches the briefest scowl on his father’s face before it completely melts into the soft smile he reserves only for his beloved son. 

“Malcolm, my boy. You’re early!” His father’s smile quickly disappears and he places both hands on Malcolm’s still trembling shoulders. “And you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The king tuts. “So pale.” 

“Oh, yes, father. I uh…” Malcolm takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, pulling up a good response as quickly as he can. “Lady Madaline insisted on a walk. It was… rather draining.”

“Oh, that harpy again. I should have had them leave the castle days ago. Don’t you worry, son. I’ll see to it she doesn’t bother you any longer. Are you ready to eat and discuss the riveting details of the treasury accounts?”

He really isn’t. 

But when it comes to the King, Malcolm doesn’t exactly have much choice. 


	12. Chapter 12

# 

“You hit like a kitchen maid.” Dani rolls her shoulders back and squares up once more, obviously more affected by JT’s sword landing than she’s letting on. But that’s good. It’s good to brush things off, and Gil nods.

JT takes a step as if to move around her. “You’ve obviously never been hit by a kitchen maid. That’s a compliment.” He continues to circle the other squire, step by careful step. They are so different in their approach to one on one combat. Dani is quick and sharp, her offensive tactics usually take her opponents by surprise based on the way she tends to over-defend, hidden behind her shield, taking advantage of her slight frame. 

But JT is slower, more calculated. Every move he makes is deliberate and well thought out. It’s easy to get him down once you get past his shield, but he’s working on it, getting better at standing his ground. In the six months they’ve been here, the young man has already begun to fill out and had to get new tunics made three times. It’s not just from growth either, though that has had a considerable effect. No, the squire works tirelessly to always be in his best form, working on his own when he’s not in training or combat lessons. He’s taking a little longer to acclimate to horse riding than Gil would like, despite having had lessons up north when Gil had known them. Apparently, whoever took over when he’d left had been slacking. 

JT’s blunted sword swings in a low arc and catches the edge of Dani’s shield, allowing Dani to guide it away towards the ground and get her own wrapped around his much larger body to clang against the back of his helmet.

He takes a dramatic fall to the ground to let her know he recognizes the hit as good while Gil cheers from the side. He’s proud of how far they’ve progressed since falling behind after he’d left the north. The two of them should be up to snuff in just a couple of years and then they’ll be sure to earn their notice in no time at all.

Dani grabs JT’s hand and helps him to his feet, giving him a firm clap on the back for a good match before they both head over to Gil’s side. 

“Excellent work, Powell.” Gil nods. “JT, do you know how you let her get you?”

The kid grumbles a little but is able to keep the bulk of his frustrations back. The hardest thing he’s having to learn is how to not show every bit of his disgruntled emotions on his face. Other knights typically interpret it as insolence and they don’t take well to it at all, even when JT’s more frustrated with himself than anything else. 

“I’m too slow.”

“Nope.” Gil shakes his head. “It’s not your speed that’s getting you. Plenty of well renowned fighters out there are mountains who never move fast at all. It’s your focus. Either you’ve got your eye on Dani’s shield, or your own, but never both at the same time. So while you were worried about getting past her defenses, you let your own down.” Gil grabs one of the blunted practice swords from the ground and gestures for Dani’s shield. She hands it over quickly and he gets into position facing JT. “Now, no blows because I’m not wearing a helmet. I’ll go slow, though.” 

Gil waits for JT to take his stance then carefully moves around him. He goes in a slow circle, calculating and keeping an eye on where JT is focusing. It’s all on Gil’s sword, which tells him exactly what move he knows will get the kid. So he moves in, telegraphing his intention, swinging his own sword in a low arc. Just as the squire pulls the same move Dani had, sending the blade toward the ground, Gil snaps his own shield out and over the edge, then yanks. If JT didn’t have a death grip on his shield it would have fallen away, but the way the kid grips it means his entire body is jerked forward, brought to chest to chest with Gil and locked in place. With a smirk, Gil raises his hand and taps JT’s helmet with his sword.

“You were focused on my sword when I attacked, so you lost sight of my shield.” 

“Even if I had seen that coming, how am I supposed to block it  _ and  _ your sword?” JT asks, clearly frustrated.

“Well,” Gil backs up and resets. But instead of attacking, he does some practice swings with his own weapon into the air. His shield barely ever moves away from his body. “You’ve got your grip down to keep from losing the thing, but your shield arm is still too loose. Not only do you still drop it a touch when you’re attacking, you let it get too far away when defending.”

“But…”

“No, I get it. I do. It’s still a reflex. The further you keep the other guys sword away from you the better, right?” JT nods in the way that shows he knows that’s not actually the right answer so Gil continues. “But you have to fight through that reflex. Because if you let your shield get too far away, you open yourself up to another kind of attack. In one on ones it can cost you an injury. In a melee or actual battle, it’ll cost you your life.”

With a simple, but curt nod, JT signals that he understands. He’s getting better, yes, but that doesn’t mean Gil gets to stop teaching him, always reminding him ways to be better. It will save his life one day. Of that, Gil is certain. 

“Dani…”

“Alright, you layabouts!” 

Gil groans and closes his eyes so his squires won’t see the way he rolls them at Jake’s shout from across the training field. 

“His Highness has finally deigned to join us for melee practice this afternoon so it’s time to get moving. Let’s go. Now!”

JT and Dani  _ don’t _ hide their eye rolls from Gil and he gives them both a quick smack to the back of the head for it. Not hard, just enough to remind them of their etiquette rules around the knights. 

“Come on, Gil.” Dani groans. “We don’t do that around anyone but you and Malcolm.”

“And if you’re comfortable enough to do it around the Prince, you’ll be comfortable enough to slip around someone else, thinking you get special privileges for your friendship. Now go on, get moving.”

Gil watches the group gather for a minute. He’s to join them for practical practice after they’ve gone through whatever drills Sir Jake has decided to put them through today. He has no issues with training his own squires and Malcolm when he asks for help, but it takes a lot of patience to deal with the methods Sir Jake seems to think are most effective with the kids. It’s been three years since Gil made his oath and he still remembers some of the things the young prince had said about those he’d met that evening. Especially Sir Jake.  _ An asshole  _ is what Malcolm had clearly wanted to say but knew better than to admit out loud. 

Because an asshole is what the guy is. 

He can’t say that his training doesn't produce strong fighters, but he wishes the knight didn’t obviously enjoy inflicting so much pain. Gil can already tell he’s in rare form today, just from the way he’d called everyone to the field. He has a tendency to push them past their limits, and not in a safe way either. More than once Gil has had to treat an injury after practice that could have easily been avoided. But since he gets results, no one seems to question it. 

On top of all of that, he seems to have it out for the prince, as well. Despite the fact that Malcolm trains harder and longer than anyone else, including those older than him with more to prove, Sir Jake acts like Malcolm is skirting by on his title alone at all times. If the kid messes up, it’s called out for all to see before it’s corrected. If he’s late - like he apparently is today - he doesn’t simply have to do extra rounds to make up for it like all the other trainees would, he has to be called out on it and made an example of.

When Gil asked him about it just the once, Malcolm had sighed and shook his head. “It’s fine. He’s right to call me out. As the future King I should be above reproach because I am doing what should be done, not just because I wear the crown.” 

Gil had kept his thoughts about thirteen year-olds still basically being children to himself and let it go. 

“Do not let up, do not give him quarter.” Malcolm stands on his own, fully kitted out and staring down three other squires. Gil notes how JT and Dani aren’t among them. Every one of the squires knows how the three of them had become friends within a couple of months of arriving in the capital. What none of them know outside their small group of four is how awkward and slow going it had been from all sides. Even Gil had a few cringes at the way they’d treated each other at first. It was like none of them had ever made friends before. While he knew that was far from the truth for JT, and Dani had enough of them back home to surely know what she was doing, Gil had realized the Prince didn’t really have anyone he was open and close to except for Gil - who was really just his guard and nowhere near his age. Even though Malcolm had assured him a few times there were plenty of his peers he played with when he was younger, it seemed to Gil that time and station had slowly separated them the older he got. 

What the others also don’t ever seem to realize, is that in training, no one gives Malcolm more shit than his two friends. 

“How late was he?” Gil asks JT when he gets to the edge of the training ring and to the squire’s side. 

“You could still hear the echoes of the bell when he got here,” Peter, one of the squires that is JT’s age and exceptionally soft-hearted for someone training to be a knight, pipes up from his other side. He  _ also  _ doesn’t get put up against the prince very often.

They watch in silence as the four squires square off. Gil has seen them do this often. It’s a good training tactic for a melee, ensuring they understand what it feels like to have to watch multiple people at once. Often, in an attempt not to hurt one another, a team going against one person will take turns. But a well trained squad of knights, who work well together and know how each other will move, can predict their teammates next actions, can go in all at once. No one out here works like that yet, but he doesn’t doubt some of them will get there. 

Caedmon, with a sword in each hand, William, with a classic sword and shield, and Rachel with her massive pike will probably get there first. They are the oldest of those still in training, ready to go out on their own with little supervision any day now. 

Rachel gets in first, tapping at Malcolm’s shield to try and get him fazed, to shake him up and get his guard down. She hardly ever goes in for the finishing blows, preferring to be the warm up act for anyone they go up against as a team. 

Normally, Malcolm holds his own against everyone, including these three.

But Gil can already see that something is wrong. The manic fury he’d seen in the kid early in the morning has completely vanished, replaced by a distant look in his eyes that he can see even from behind the helmet. Outwardly, he moves like he’s supposed to, but Gil knows it’s all on reflex at this point. He defends when something comes at him, he jerks out of the way and manages to dodge several blows all at once. There’s no fire to his movements though, nothing deliberate about them that says he’s getting into the feel and the flow of combat like he always does. 

And despite managing to not go down right out of the gate, Gil knows he’s not going to win this fight. 

In half the amount of time it would usually take them, Malcolm falls to the ground after an exceptionally hard blow from Caedmon. It takes him longer to get up and shake it off as well, helped by a friendly hand from William. Gil doesn’t like this, hates that vacant and lost look in the prince’s eyes. But he can’t say anything, can’t take a moment to help him snap out of it or even see what’s wrong. There’s only one time he can drop the mantle of his station and be a friend to the kid. And that’s when they have something resembling privacy. Even around JT and Dani he’s more formal than he allows himself to be when it’s just the two of them.

So, he watches. 

He watches as Malcolm moves slower and slower. He watches as even in the one on ones he loses again and again to people he never loses to any longer. He watches, blood beginning to boil, as Sir Jake begins to shout and scream at the group as a whole but undoubtedly focusing mostly on the young prince. 

“Since it seems his highness never actually showed up to practice this afternoon, I think it’s time to remind him what we’re trying to learn here.” Sir Jake snatches his own helm from a bench at the side of the field and snaps it into place, securing his gorget before grabbing his massive two handed sword. 

Gil’s stomach flips and he presses his lips together in a firm line. 

He should step in. The prince is in no state to fight a fully grown and highly skilled knight. Especially one with as many anger issues and such a giant stick up his ass as Jake. But Gil’s place here is as a silent observer, another sword when the training calls for it. 

His fingers itch around the blunted weapon he has tied to his belt, but he makes no overt gestures to interrupt.

Besides, he knows Malcolm well enough by now to know the prince wouldn’t easily forgive him.

“Come on, your Highness,” Sir Jake taunts with absolutely no respect in his voice whatsoever. “Just get past me. One hit. That’s all it’ll take and you can go rest for the afternoon. Get a little more beauty sleep in.” 

That, at least, seems to spur Malcolm on. Jake has pretty much been given carte blanche permission to treat the prince any way he sees fit while on the training field. Here, he’s not a prince, he’s just another soldier. Which is how it should be.

Jake seems to forget that though and swings wildly in the other direction.

Malcolm charges with a shout, but Jake just side steps him easily, laughing. 

The entire fight is sloppy, Malcolm unfocused despite his growing frustration and anger. He swings without purpose other than anger, blocks in wide arcs that leave him wide open to attack. If the older knight were actually trying to train him and not just make an example of him the fight would have been over moments into it. But he keeps taunting Malcolm. Letting him get close before he laughs and sends him reeling. At one point he gets a blow to the kid’s leg which will leave a nasty bruise but it isn’t called. Malcolm refuses to go down. Gil can see the fire raging in his eyes from beneath his helm, and suddenly realizes exactly what it’s going to take to  _ make  _ him go down.

He’s going to have to step in. 

Malcolm seems to gain a burst of speed, feigning a swing at Jake’s right side before spinning off to his left and getting a good, solid hit across the Knight’s back. 

“Why, you little…” Sir Jake swings his sword wide, catching Malcolm hard on the arm and coming away red despite the blunted edge. As Malcolm cries out and goes to his knee, Jake begins to ready another blow.

_ “HOLD!”  _

Gil shouts as he bursts onto the field, coming to rest between the knight and the squire with his own blade held out high. 

But they don’t collide, 

Everything around them has fallen still,  _ years  _ of training ground rules so ingrained into Jake that even he freezes at the command word. Gil hadn’t realized that the buzz in his head had been from the onlookers, from the crowds of squires and castle staff alike cheering and crying out for one or the other. 

Now, it is eerily silent. 

“JT! Dani!” Gil nods to his two squires, though he needn’t have. They're both already running to the side of the fallen prince. “Get him patched up, and to the physician if it calls for it.” In front of Gil, Jake is seething, chest heaving in fury. But his sword arm drops to his side, eyes never moving from the younger knight’s gaze. “And the rest of you, disperse.” When no one makes to move except for JT who is helping Malcolm to his feet, Gil takes a deep breath and shouts, “NOW!”

Everyone snaps. Even Jake jerks almost imperceptibly. But Gil sees it. He sees the silent fear there, reflected in his gaze, that Jake knows the kind of trouble he’s in. They’ve known each other just over three years now and  _ everyone  _ in the castle knows not just how seriously Gil takes his duty of protecting the prince, but just how far one has to go to get him angry. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Gil grits out, still holding onto the hilt of his sword, not willing to let it go until the other knight does. He’s seen Jake’s anger, seen how he gets at the drop of a hat and it’s already wound up tight enough just from his encounter with Malcolm.

“I’m teaching the brat a lesson.” Jake slams his sword tip first into the ground and only then does Gil move his own out of a defensive position, but he doesn’t put it back on his belt just yet. The older Knight’s helm goes next, tossed to the ground without care. “He thinks he can walk in here whenever the hell he wants, not paying attention and not working as hard as the rest! That kind of attitude gets others killed. People will die to protect their prince, he damn well better know how to protect himself so they don’t have to!”

Jake isn’t wrong, it is important for Malcolm to know and understand that lesson. But the asshole is going about it the wrong way. Taking his arm isn’t going to teach him a damned thing. “Prince Malcolm works harder, and longer, than anyone else out here!” Gil is seething. He would be yelling except he doesn’t want to attract a crowd again. For now, they’re alone. “He  _ knows  _ how important it is that he learns how to act on the battlefield, how to protect himself. He’s learned that lesson first hand. Don’t forget we’re talking about the kid who helped fight off a grown, well trained assassin when he was just eleven years old.”

“Yeah?” Jake smirks and steps in closer to Gil’s space, nearly chest to chest. He speaks just above a whisper, words dark and purposeful. “And where did that assassin come from? Hmm? Kind of convenient that you show up to the capital, almost aged out of the typical squire pool and just begging for His Majesty to notice you, and suddenly the prince gets attacked on your first hunt with the royal party.”

Gil is moving before he realizes how he’s reacting. 

With a crack, his fist makes contact with Jake’s face and the other knight reels back, throwing a foot out behind himself to keep from falling over. It’s a knee jerk reaction and the moment he’s steady his own arm is swinging wide. But Gil is faster. 

Gil is better.

He swivels around and grabs Jake’s arm, using his own momentum against him to throw him to the ground. 

It’s the first time Gil has ever been in a physical confrontation not as part of a tournament or an actual combat since he was a boy himself. He’s never quick to anger, but the words Jake had accused him with had cut him to his very core. Gil should be better than to react that way, but to accuse him of putting the Prince’s life in danger, when the only thing he’s ever wanted to do since that first encounter was keep the kid safe…

He’s seeing red, seething there in the middle of the empty training field. 

When Jake looks up at him there’s a deep sense of his own fury in his eyes, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to get up. 

And Gil doesn’t offer him a hand. 

They stay there, locked in a heated gaze, for a long time. 

No one saw this, as far as he can tell. And they both have something to lose if either of them opens their mouths about it. Gil may have one of the most coveted positions in the kingdom but he’s still young, still outranked by those like Jake. But despite being right about Malcolm needing to know how to protect himself, he’d purposely injured the prince, and that was far outside of what would normally be accepted in a typical training session.

Especially for a fourteen year old.

Even if he is the prince.

So Gil breaks first, turning his back on Jake, and walking toward where JT and Dani had taken their friend.

# 

It takes everything Malcolm has not to break down into tears as JT and Dani get him propped up in the armory. 

His leg is screaming at him with every movement; his arm stinging, and he knows it will be just as purple and bruised as his leg is once the blood is cleaned up. 

None of them speak while JT helps him out of his armor and Dani fetches a clean bucket of water and a rag to help clean him up. Malcolm yanks his helmet off but carefully places on the bench beside him, not wanting to have to do extra work to clean it up and repair any dents he may have by tossing it aside just because he’s having a bad day. He seriously doesn’t need one more thing to worry about right now.

“Alright, Malcolm.” JT carefully holds his arm while pulling his leather pauldrons off. The blow had come just below the ridge and stings like hell in addition to the throbbing going on from the bruise. Once the leather is gone and Malcolm is finally free of the outer layers of armor he breathes out a heavy, exhausted sigh. “What the hell is up with you today?”

At some point while fetching the water, Dani had shed enough of her own armor to move around comfortably again. When she gets back, she carefully moves Malcolm’s helmet out of the way, sitting next to him with the bucket of water at her feet and a knife in her hand. Malcolm’s tunic is ruined from the blow anyway, so cutting off the sleeve won’t matter much at this point.

“Nothing.” He says as flat as he can manage. It doesn’t fool either of them though. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Dani says slowly, with a nod and an exaggerated pout to her lips. “So you just let Sir Jake beat up on you for giggles then?” With that she places the cold rag to his skin and Malcolm winces. She’s not rough, she’s actually incredibly gentle, wiping around the cut as tenderly as she can before rinsing the rag and then bringing it back to wring out above the injury so it rinses the split flesh. Malcolm breathes a little easier to see it isn’t deep. They’ll be able to clean it up here, wrap it in a bandage and call it a day.

“Thought it would provide a little entertainment for the masses,” Malcolm says through another wince. 

JT kneels at Malcolm’s feet and pushes up the leg of the prince’s trousers to make sure the blow he’d taken to the side of his thigh doesn't need attending either. Malcolm could do it himself, but he’s grateful for their help. It isn’t the first time the three of them have patched one another up, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. It’s just a quick glance, a few fingers prodded around the quickly spreading bruise. But Malcolm just nods that he feels fine and JT tugs the fabric all back into place before sitting back and laying his arms over his own bent knees. 

“Man, that was not entertaining in the slightest. You were obviously off your game.” Before Malcolm can protest, JT points at Malcolm’s arm where Dani is carefully pulling a few bits of frayed linen from the cut. “You were off your game. Jake is a dick, and he’s the best, but you’ve still never let him get one over on you like that in the entire time the two of us have been here. Now spill.”

Malcolm swallows heavily. He can’t tell them anything, despite the earnest care he sees in both their eyes. What the hell is he supposed to say? That he heard his father talking with a man about killing people? That he’s terrified of his father and isn’t sure that this is the first time he’s felt this kind of deep, blood curdling fear? Despite what he’d heard he had still had lunch with the king, and his father hadn’t acted any differently than he always does with Malcolm. He’d been open, smiling, laughing, as if he hadn’t just discussed brutally taking the life from someone like it was a game he’d just lost a round in. 

King Martin had been warm, loving.

What on earth kind of man can switch from one to the other so fast, in just a blink of an eye? 

“Malcolm?” Dani gently grabs his arm, just tight enough to get his attention.

He hadn’t realized it, but Malcolm’s eyes are wet with tears and he feels ashamed for breaking down like this.

“You know you can trust us right?” She offers, looking to JT, who nods quickly.

“Damn right you can.” 

They both sound so sincere, so earnest to do something to help him, to be there for him. But what can he say? That today has been the day from hell? That he’s more and more afraid of his father with every month that passes? Or about how when he’d run into Paul who works down in the laundry that he’d been so frozen in terror at his voice, Malcolm thought his heart was going to stop? His nightmares still happen, and right now he feels like he’s living one of them. And then there’s all the other problems he’s having, with his mother and the visitors. With  _ Madaline. _

Malcolm’s thoughts circle back.

Madaline.

That’s a good excuse, right? He can spin something up from that. Sure, it isn’t enough to really have set him off, not enough to have acted like this. Nothing should be able to affect him like he’d let it in training today. But he had, and he needs to learn to push through it, find a way to push it down and focus. So for now, he huffs a laugh, and shakes his head with a smirk that he plasters on. 

“It’s really stupid,” he tries to assure them. 

Dani frowns. “It can’t be that stupid if you let Sir Jake get you like this.”

“Come on, spill,” JT insists. 

“Do you two know Madaline?” Malcolm swallows heavily, trying not to make eye contact. They always know when he’s lying, even if this isn’t technically a lie he doesn’t want to give himself away.

From his periphery he can tell Dani rolls her eyes. “That bi-”

JT clears his throat rather pointedly.

“That fine young lady who has been roaming the castle, watching us practice every day and always seems to be somewhere convenient to run into you? That Madaline?” She flutters her lashes in an exaggeration of innocence and Malcolm actually smiles for the first time in hours. 

“That’s the one.” 

“What about her?” JT asks, arms crossed and suspicious as hell. 

Malcolm’s gut churns at the memory, even if it wasn’t the worst thing that has happened to him today. She’d been so pushy, so insistent. 

“We went on a walk this morning, just before the mid-day meal.”

Dani gets the last of the strands of linen out of Malcolm’s cut and proceeds to wring more water across the split flesh, making sure she’s got as much dirt and out of it as possible. “You mean she ambushed you and followed you around?” The disgust in her voice is obvious. Dani’s never been a fan of any of the young ladies that have been around the castle lately. But then again, the older squire is suspicious of everyone who could ever possibly have ulterior motives behind their behaviors. Malcolm’s still not convinced she trusts _him_ completely, but they’re getting there. 

“Yes and no. She did ambush me,”  _ twice  _ he thinks, “but I did at least agree to the walk this time.”

JT is frowning, already looking like he doesn’t believe a word of it but when Malcolm is silent for too long, he circles his hand in the air, gesturing for him to get on with his story. 

“We went into the gardens and she, she uh, she kissed me.”

There. That should do it. 

It’s a true story, even if it isn’t what’s weighing heaviest on his mind right now. Even if it had been the furthest  _ from  _ his mind while he’d been out on the training field. 

Dani bursts into laughter while JT tuts. 

“Seriously?” he asks. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe that’s enough to rattle the prince. For a long moment he stares Malcolm down. Malcolm stares back, knowing there’s still moisture in his eyes, that his face is probably still pale and his hands are trembling just enough to notice. Silently, he begs the older squire to just let it go, to take his words at face value and stop digging. 

Eventually, JT seems to come to a decision and nods, though he doesn’t look happy about it. “Fine. You’re having girl troubles. What’s the problem, she a bad kisser?”

At Malcolm’s side, Dani snorts and shakes her head while finally applying a clean scrap of cloth around Malcolm’s arm. “Getting a kiss doesn’t sound like girl  _ problems,  _ your highness,” she teases. “Even if she is a bad kisser.” 

“I don’t know if she was bad at it!” Malcolm huffs, genuinely frustrated but glad to have his mind on literally anything else for the moment. “I just didn't enjoy it, that’s all.”

“Obviously she was terrible.” JT smirks and shakes his head. “Because anyone who can properly kiss would make sure you enjoyed it.”

“Well how would I know? I’ve never kissed anyone before.” 

On Malcolm’s arm, Dani’s hand stills. When he looks over at her, there’s obviously humor shining in her bright eyes and she bites her lips for a moment. “Seriously? The prince of Milton has never kissed anyone? Well, before this morning, of course.”

“Of course not. It isn’t proper,” he argues halfheartedly. “I’ve never even thought about it.” Okay. That’s a lie. A massive lie. He’s thought about it plenty of times, really. Hoped to have some romantic encounter with some beautiful person he was ready to give his heart to. Someone with a kind heart and a beautiful smile. Someone he could protect and look after but who also cares for others and loves him not for what he is, but for who he is. Madaline certainly doesn’t fit that description. Despite the fact that he recognizes she’s an attractive young woman, there’s nothing that draws him to her. 

“So it was your first kiss, and it was terrible.” Dani secures the end of the bandage before standing. 

Malcolm thinks back to his conversation with Gil that morning, before everything. Before everything he’s trying to avoid by focusing on his least terrible problem of the day. Was it just that it was unexpected? Was she really bad at it? Maybe he just doesn’t like kissing girls no matter who they are? How is he supposed to know anyway? Gil had told him he didn’t have to try anything to figure it all out, but that seems counter-intuitive to him. 

“Okay,” Malcolm looks between them and lets a devilish grin take over his face. They both suddenly look wary, as they should. You can only tease a prince so far before there are consequences, even if you are friends. “If you’re both  _ so insistent  _ that the only reason any of this bothers me is that she was a terrible kisser, then you should both show me how it’s done. Prove me wrong.”

“What?” JT blinks at him and Dani turns on her heel to stare at him with her brows drawn in curiosity. 

“You should kiss me! Both of you.”

Suddenly JT is staring at him as if Malcolm had just spontaneously sprouted a second head.

“What?” he repeats, blinking owlishly at the prince. 

“I mean, I’m not going to order you to or anything, of course.” Only one person needs to be forced into something they don’t really want to do today. Malcolm can let that be him for the time being. “You’re both very insistent that this is the problem. You’ve also both, independently, spent many,  _ many  _ hours talking about how amazing you are and all the people you’ve wooed.”

“Your highness…” JT sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I have most certainly  _ never  _ done anything like that. Ever.” Dani kicks JT in the hip lightly several times. “This guy on the other hand.”

“Uh, last week?” Malcolm points out. “Lady Sophia? Did you just forget about that?”

“That! I was…” Dani  _ blushes  _ which isn’t something Malcolm has seen her do yet. Not really. Not when she’s not waxing poetic about long, beautiful hair that looks like the sunrise and feels as soft as clouds. To be fair, she hadn’t spoken a word about what the two of them had gotten up to, but the besotted look on her face had told both of them more than enough. 

JT doesn’t have an argument. He tells Malcolm and Dani everything. 

“So, if you just show me how it’s done, I can find out if she’s just a lousy kisser or maybe I just don’t like kissing. Or maybe I prefer boys. If you’re both amazing, and JT is good but I don’t like Dani, then obviously…”

“Malcolm!” JT nearly shouts. “If I agree to kiss you, will you shut up?”

“Yes!” Malcolm nods eagerly. “I’ll shut up, and we’ll never have to speak of it again. I swear it. It will be like this whole afternoon never even happened.” He looks over to the other squire and raises his brows. “Dani?” 

Her blush hasn’t lessened the smile on her lips and now she all out giggles - which is such a novel thing from her that Malcolm stares, mouth agape. “Why not? Not every day someone can say they kissed a prince!” 

She holds out her hand to help Malcolm to his feet, grasping his arm that isn’t wrapped in a bandage and stepping in close. 

Dani has always towered over him - most people do, even those his age. He looks up into her dark brown gaze, sparkling with mischief, and blinks. She doesn’t come in close, no closer than she has to so that she can bend down to meet his lips. But she does put a firm finger just under his chin, tilting his head up just a touch as she does so. 

Her lips are soft, but the kiss is not. The pressure from her lips is firm, not demanding, but highly suggestive. In addition, the touch of her fingers becomes a grip on his chin, just enough to guide his head, to tilt Malcolm exactly where she wants him to go. It never deepens, never becomes anything more than a press of lips, but Malcolm’s head swims in sensations, a pleasant buzz in his skin that has him humming in contentment as she pulls away.

“Alright, JT,” Dani says with a smug smirk on her lips. “You’re up.” When she backs away, Malcolm has to stop himself from leaning unconsciously forward to try and fall back into her orbit once more. 

JT huffs and pulls himself up to standing obviously trying to not make eye contact with his prince while he pouts. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am. But you don’t have to,” Malcolm assures him with a soft, hazy smile. “I mean, Dani was um.. That was really... “

“Oh no. Powell is not showing me up in this, too.”

He slips his hand along Malcolm’s jaw, carding his fingers through the soft curls and guiding his prince forward. It’s a tender touch, nowhere near as demanding as Dani’s had been. Dani had told Malcolm where to go with her touch, with her hand. JT asks, silently, with a feather light caress and a simple hint of pressure. The kiss is quick and light, but no less toe curling for the amount of attention JT gives it. 

It’s over too fast, Malcolm keeping his eyes closed as JT finally stops. 

“Nope. Still only like girls.” JT pats Malcolm’s shoulder with a firm hand then backs away. “Sorry, man.”

“I am very solidly still attracted to anyone,” Dani assures them both as Malcolm finally blinks his eyes open as if waking from a dream. “Except you.” She points to Malcolm, still smiling. “And only because you’re too much…” Dani gestures to Malcolm’s entire body, head to toe. “Prince.” She shudders but there’s still a smile tugging at the edge of her lips. “No one wants to deal with all that,” Dani adds with a wink. 

“Right.” Malcolm nods, not one hundred percent still in the present moment, fingers pressed lightly to his lips as the memory of their kisses lingers. “That… that makes total sense.” 

He’s surprised he’s not put out by her words. In fact, they actually do make sense. And despite how amazing both of them had made him feel he’s not any more attracted to them now than he was a few minutes ago. There’s no pull towards either of them, though each of them had made him physically feel amazing, a tingling sensation sparking deep in his gut, once it was gone there was still no pull, no craving for anything other than more of that, which they had both been able to elicit from him. 

No. 

_ You don’t actually have to try anything to figure it out. _

But how is he supposed to  _ know _ ?

“If you three take any longer in here we’re all going to miss dinner.”

Malcolm jerks his head up to see Sir Gil standing in the open doorway of the armory, the late setting sun illuminating his hair and reflecting off the metal fasteners of his light leather armor with a deep orange glow. It’s a sight that he’s seen many times, that has made him stop and stare more often than not lately. But for the first time in his life, he suddenly recognizes why. 

And realizes he’s in trouble.

“You two,” Sir Gil begins, gesturing to his squires, “have guard duty this evening so if you want anything to eat at all, I suggest you leave now.”

They don’t need to be told twice, both JT and Dani giving Malcolm a quick, perfunctory bow before turning and heading out the way Gil had just come. 

When Gil gets to Malcolm’s side, he reaches for the bandage on his arm, fingers barely touching the cloth to inspect Dani’s work. After he nods with a satisfied look on his face, he steps back with a small bow to his head. 

“Is everything alright, your highness?”

He speaks so softly, with such care in his voice - like he always has - and Malcolm finds that he doesn’t have the words to respond. 

The feeling in his stomach is back, the one that JT and Dani had given him with their kiss, their touch, that  _ physical  _ interaction. There’s a warmth in his gut and everything about him feels more at ease even as his heart flutters. 

Just from Gil walking in. Just from a few simple, softly spoken words of concern. 

Malcolm shakes his head, and stares up at his personal guard with so much emotion from the ups and downs of the day still bubbling just under the surface that he feels like he’s going to explode. He can’t let him see any of it, can’t break down in front of him again. Not right now. He knows Gil is safe, and maybe that’s the biggest reason.

“No. No, it really isn’t.” He says, anyway.

“Sire…”

Malcolm shakes his head and turns to grab the torn pieces of his clothing and the bucket Dani had left behind. He needs to clean up after himself. Others can do it, but it will give him a chance to escape. 

“I’ll be fine, Sir Gil. I’ll see you at dinner.”

# 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Malcolm to further his _education_....

Martin stands at a distance, watching his son train with the other squires and knights. He knows that if Malcolm were aware that the king was watching it would throw off not only his performance, but also the performance of the men with which he’s training. He wants to see what his boy is capable of without any outside interference or influence. So, he keeps his presence hidden.

Malcolm is  _ good _ . Better than most of his peers and even some of the older squires, skillfully holding his own against full knights. Martin’s own martial skills, while adequate, have never been anything to boast about, but he can recognize skill when he sees it. It makes him proud to see his son performing so well. As Prince, the boy needs to be able to exert his authority over his subjects, and the easiest way to do so is often through displays of strength and skill in combat.

The problem is, Malcolm isn’t a fighter. He isn’t aggressive by nature, and by no means is he physically imposing. But he’s smart as a whip; intelligent, well-educated, observant, and resourceful. Malcolm is charming, and even though he’s only 15—still coltish and awkward—he’s already attracting the attention of young ladies in court with his piercing blue eyes and thick curly hair. 

From the time his son was born, Martin’s plan has been to shape Malcolm into his right hand man, his protege, his enforcer, and he still intends to do so. But, as he’s watched his son grow into his own person, he’s come to realize that Malcolm will never be a blunt force weapon that Martin can wield against his enemies or use to keep his allies in line. Malcolm will never be intimidating, but he can be  _ convincing _ . He’s already a natural at winning people over, and with some additional guidance and instruction he’ll grow into an irresistible young man, a formidable force of manipulation and coercion if need be.

Martin watches for several minutes longer as Malcolm finishes his bout, victorious once more. He’ll be 16 in just a few short months, and with the skill he’s shown, Martin thinks he’ll be more than ready for his knighthood then. Which will be the perfect opportunity for Martin to put his new plan for the prince into effect. But, if that’s to be the case, they’ve some work to do to ensure that Malcolm is ready to take on his new role, and Martin knows just the man for the task of instructing Malcolm in his new responsibilities.

He stops the first servant he sees as he makes his way inside the castle and sends them to fetch him. It wouldn’t be proper for the king himself to go visit his establishment—people would surely talk—so they’ll have to meet here. It will be better this way, a reminder of just who his guest will be dealing with. Martin knows his request is… unusual. But he’s sure the man will understand what is expected of him.

He arrives within the hour, and Martin is thrilled with his quick response to his summons.

“You sent for me, your majesty?” the younger man asks, bowing respectfully.

“Nico, yes! Come in, sit. Thank you for responding so swiftly,” Martin says, settling into one of the more comfortable chairs by the fireplace rather than at his desk, hoping to foster a more relaxed setting for this particular discussion.

“Thank you, my lord. It’s an honor, of course. How can I be of service to you?” Nico asks as he takes the seat opposite Martin’s. 

Though he’s perfectly polite and appropriately deferential, there’s an edge to Nico’s question, a hint of a suggestion, though Martin is certain Nico doesn’t even know it’s there. As a man who rose through the ranks to become the owner of the city’s most  _ prestigious _ brothel, servicing only the most illustrious of its citizens, it’s likely a habit he’s built over long years of experience, which is exactly why Martin wants  _ him _ for this job.

Martin waits, letting the silence stretch out, hands steepled in front of his chest as he gives Nico a long, considering look. He’s familiar with him through reputation only, and it’s the first time he’s met the man himself.

Nico is an attractive man, which makes sense considering his profession; tanned, with hair so dark it’s nearly black, beard equally dark and neatly trimmed. To the uninformed, he looks to be a successful, rich, confident nobleman. But Martin knows it’s all a front, that he’s as lowborn as they come. 

Nico doesn’t fidget or flush in the face of the king’s frank appraisal. He’s used to being assessed,  _ appreciated _ , Martin supposes. And that’s good; the poise, the confidence, the patience, these are all qualities Martin hopes Nico will teach Malcolm. Among others.

“Forgive me, Nico. I know you’re a busy man with a business to run. I have a proposition for you, and I need to be sure you’re the man for the job.”

Nico nods, sitting lazily back in his chair. “You have my full attention, your majesty. My business can wait.”

“I trust that you, of all men, understand the importance of discretion, so it goes without saying that no one is to know of what we discuss here.”

“Of course, sire. I am a master of secrets.”

“Wonderful!” Martin leans forward in his chair, smiling gleefully and clapping his hands together. “I asked you here because of my son, Prince Malcolm. He’s grown into a fine young man, and soon he’ll be expected to start forming political relationships of his own. I want to ensure that he has the skills necessary to build relationships that will be the most beneficial to the kingdom. I need someone who can take over his education in this matter.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Nico admits, head tilted in confusion.

“When I was Malcolm’s age, I was… not liked, but I was respected, feared. I was aggressive in my pursuit of my goals, and as a result I usually got my way. Malcolm is different. He isn’t weak, or a coward, but he will never be feared. People  _ like _ him. I believe, with the right tools for the job, he can get what he wants just as effectively as I did, using a different tactic.”

“Seduction,” Nico suggests with a smirk.

Martin nods in agreement, a sly smile playing over his lips. It’s questionable, perhaps; to seek out a famously skilled courtesan to train his own son in the art of seduction. But the boy was made for it. He has the looks, the charisma and charm. Martin has no intentions of turning him into a whore, of course. He intends on turning him into a weapon, a tool he can utilize—like the drugs he’s been perfecting over the years—to shape peoples’ will to his own. 

Nico grows serious, his eyes calculating. He straightens in his chair and meets Martin’s eyes with a direct gaze that few are bold enough to give their king. “How  _ involved _ do you want the prince’s education to be?”

“Theory only,” Martin replies immediately. “Some practical tips, but no physical... involvement… is necessary.”

“Of course, sire. I understand perfectly. I have no doubt that I can provide the prince with all the education he needs.”

“You will be paid for your time, of course, and I will be in your debt if you succeed.”

“I always succeed, sire. I’ve yet to disappoint a client,” Nico assures him, that sly smirk playing across his lips once more. 

Martin smiles broadly back at him. “Well, when can you begin?”

***

Malcolm is sulking. He’d never admit it, and if anyone were to see the way he was trudging through the castle, shoulders slumped, feet dragging, he’d simply say he was tired. But he’s not. He’s sulking. 

He’s starting new lessons today, as ordered by his father. Something about developing his skills as a political ambassador, a role the king wishes him to take on when he turns 16. It’s exciting, and he’s thrilled that his father would trust him with such responsibility. He doesn’t even mind the learning—he’s always enjoyed his lessons, eager to learn as much as he can, to be the best prince and someday king that he can. 

But these lessons are all afternoon. They take him away from his time training with the other squires.  _ It’s just for a few weeks, _ his father had assured him. And Gil had agreed to train with him in the evenings when he was done for the day, to keep his skills sharp. But he’ll barely see Dani and JT now, and it will also mean a whole afternoon spent away from Gil.

Which is the  _ real _ crux of the matter, the true reason for his despondency, and it makes his ears burn in embarrassment just to think about. Kissing Dani and JT had been a revelation, but it hadn’t changed their relationships at all. They’d laughed it off and brushed it off, and a few thinly veiled jokes had been made at his expense, but that was par for the course, really. He’d kissed them both, and felt nothing now, and yet just seeing  _ Gil _ , standing there in the fading evening sun… 

Malcolm is smitten. Like a girl. He kicks at the floor with a huff of disgust. So, Gil is attractive. Fine. He can deal with that.  _ But that’s not all there is to it, _ his mind so helpfully supplies. It’s all of Gil’s other qualities that are the real problem, and Malcolm has to forcefully stop himself from thinking about them or he’ll start sighing like a besotted fool. It had happened once or twice already. He’s doomed.

And so, he’s sulking, because an afternoon in lessons means an afternoon without Gil, and  _ that _ is why he can’t admit that he is sulking, because really he’s just pining. And pining is for princesses, not princes who are nearly 16.

He’s walking so slowly—trudging, really—that he’s nearly late for his first lesson, which is not a good first impression to make. He takes a deep breath outside the small library, straightens his jacket, smooths his hair, clears his mind, and walks in.

The man waiting inside for him, his new tutor, is not what he was expecting. He’s young, for one thing, younger than any of his other tutors, except maybe for Gabrielle. He’s dressed in fine clothes, as well, and looks more like a courtier than a teacher. 

He stands respectfully when Malcolm enters, bowing at the waist as is proper. Malcolm waves him off. He’s used to it by now, understands the importance of authority and respect, but it’s annoying. Here, he is the student, it seems odd for his teacher to bow to him. He doesn’t want forced loyalty, false respect. He wants to earn it, tries very hard to do so.

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” Malcolm says as he slips into his seat across the table from the one his teacher is already occupying.

“Not at all, sire. I was early, and you are precisely on time. Besides, you are the prince. You’re always on time.”

Malcolm nearly rolls his eyes at that.  _ Great, another bootlicker, _ he thinks.

“I must admit, my father didn’t tell me your name, or what you’ll be teaching me, exactly. I’m afraid I’m rather unprepared,” Malcolm admits since the man seems to be in no hurry to introduce himself or begin their lesson.

“My name is Nico, sire. As far as what we’ll be studying, that can wait. First, I have a question for you. Your first test.”

“A test? Already?”

“Yes. A way for me to gauge your current level of skill, so I can adjust my training accordingly.”

“Skill in what? I don’t understand.”

“I promise I will explain, but only after you answer my question. I don’t want to influence your response. Now, tell me. When you came into the room, what was your first impression of me?”

“My impression of you?” Malcolm repeats, confused.

“Yes, sire. I want to know exactly what you thought, as well as you can remember. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, either,” Nico instructs with a disarming smile.

If it’s meant to put Malcolm at ease, it doesn’t, it only ruffles him more, his easygoing manner combined with the strangeness of his request and the air of mystery that surrounds him and their purpose here puts Malcolm on edge. But, he knows that his father would choose only the best for his education. Of that he is sure. So he humors the man.

“You seem young, for a tutor,” Malcolm begins. “That was my first thought. And you don’t strike me as an academic; your clothes are too fine, too well kept. And there’s no ink on your fingers. My other tutors always have ink on their fingers.”

“What do I strike you as, then?” Nico presses.

“A courtier. Though I don't remember seeing you in court. But, you also look... foreign. From another kingdom, perhaps?” Malcolm guesses.

“Well, you aren’t far off. I’m impressed, sire. I’ve heard you were bright, but it’s a pleasure to see it for myself. Not many your age are so observant.”

“I try to be aware of my surroundings,” Malcolm explains. He thinks Nico is complimenting him, but there’s something in the man’s tone he can’t quite place. Like he’s teasing, but not quite. His words are sincere, and yet there’s a playful light in his eyes.

“I can tell,” he replies, and for a moment the playfulness is gone, replaced with a piercing consideration, as if he were reading Malcolm’s mind. 

“I think we’ll get on quite well, Prince Malcolm. His highness told me you’d take well to my lessons, but I worried you’d be too young. But I see now that you are skilled beyond your years, and I think you’ll take to these lessons just fine.”

Suddenly, his father steps out from behind one of the bookshelves behind Nico, appearing so suddenly that Malcolm jumps in his seat.

“Father! What are you doing here?” he exclaims, unable to hide his surprise. He’d felt wrong-footed since he walked in the door, and the realization that his father had been present the whole time throws him even more off-balance.

“Malcolm, I’m sorry. Did I startle you?” Martin asks with faux sincerity, but Malcolm can see the mischief in his eyes, the small smile tugging at his lips. 

“You know you did,” he replies with a bit of a pout, crossing his arms over his chest. “You meant to. What is this all about?”

Martin gives Nico a nod as he walks past him to sit on the edge of the table, facing Malcolm. “Well, my boy, like Nico said, there was some concern about whether or not you were ready to begin learning from him. I wanted to see how things went for myself, just in case my fatherly pride had led me to overestimate your abilities. But, I think we can both agree now that I was right, and you are ready, yes?” he asks, turning to direct the question to Nico. 

“Undoubtedly, your highness. You were right.”

“I would really like to know what’s going on,” Malcolm interjects. He’s more confused than ever, and though he’s glad to know that he’s met and exceeded their expectations, he still doesn't really understand what those expectations were.

“Of course, Malcolm, let me explain. I told you before that I think you’re nearly ready to take on some new responsibilities, yes? To become an ambassador of sorts?”

Malcolm nods.

“In this role, you’ll be traveling across the kingdom, maybe even to other kingdoms. But, not everyone you deal with will be our ally, even here, within Milton. And sometimes, even our allies aren’t always in agreement with us as their rulers. It’s important that you know how to deal with these people when you do meet them to ensure their compliance.”

“I’m the Prince. Won’t that be enough?” Malcolm asks.

“It should be. But, it won’t be. You’ll have to prove yourself, royal title or no, just as I had to prove myself after I married your mother. Prove that they should do what you say, that they can trust you, and, if necessary, that there will be consequences if they don’t. You must learn to utilize your natural strengths to convince them to like you, and Nico will help you do that.”

“I mean no offense, father, but I’m not sure if I need to be… trained in how to make friends. Nearly everyone I meet likes me as it is. You’ve said so yourself,” Malcolm points out. It feels odd to say, he doesn’t often compliment himself. But he’s still unsure of exactly what it is his father expects of him.

“That’s true, which is why you’re perfect for this role. What Nico will teach you is how to make people  _ want _ you. Want to be your friend, and our allies. It’s not enough that they simply  _ like _ you, Malcolm. You must learn to make them desire more than that, by treating them well, by showing them that it is to their benefit to be your ally. You’ll see, once you begin your lessons in earnest. But do you understand, now, what I’m asking of you?”

Malcolm frowns, but nods. “I think so, father. I want to do well, to serve the kingdom as best I can.”

“I know you do, my boy, and I would never have chosen you for this role if I didn’t think you could succeed. Listen to Nico, he knows what he’s talking about. Take his words to heart and you’ll do great things for me. For the kingdom. Now, I’ll leave you both to it.”

***

Malcolm’s lessons with Nico are nothing like he’d expected. At first, they remind him of his time spent with Gabrielle who’d taught him how to communicate with more than just words. But while Gabrielle’s lessons had been focused on the art and cultivation of polite conversation, Nico’s focus is much more… specific. 

_ Control. _

"You see, Prince Malcolm, it's all about taking, and maintaining, control. Now, power is what gives you control, and when it comes to negotiations,  _ knowledge _ is the ultimate source of power. Does that make sense?" 

Malcolm nods slowly. "But how do I get the knowledge that I need to be successful at maintaining that control?"

"That is what I'm here to teach you. I’ll teach you how to  _ convince _ people to tell you what you want to know, how to get them to  _ open up _ to you. The key is to always leave them wanting more."

"More of what?" Malcolm asks, eyebrows drawn in confusion. 

"Why, more of  _ you _ , my dear, sweet prince."

Malcolm has no idea what to make of that, but when he asks Nico to elaborate the man just smiles and waves him off. “We’ll get to that,” he promises. “First things first.”

Over the course of the weeks ahead, Nico teaches him how to discern what people  _ want _ ; from a conversation, a meeting, a negotiation, or from the person they’re talking. He teaches Malcolm about desire, and how to use it to his advantage. 

“Everybody wants something, Malcolm, and because you’re the prince, you have the most to offer, which means that everyone will always want something from  _ you _ , in particular. They may not even realize it, but that is how people are. They are always thinking of their own needs first. You have learned how to put your needs aside, how to think of the kingdom ahead of yourself. But most people aren’t like that.”

_ That _ , Malcolm understands. “There are always strings attached,” he adds, a lesson he’d learned from his father early on. He can count on one hand the number of people in his life who truly want nothing from him other than his friendship—Cal, JT and Dani, Andi. Gil. Everyone else sees him only as the Prince of Milton, heir to the throne. Never as just Malcolm.

“That’s right. And, realizing that before the conversation even begins already puts you in a position of power. That is knowledge you can use.”

Malcolm smiles. Finally, something he understands.

“Conversations are like skirmishes,” Nico tells him during another lesson, “and you must learn to spar just as well with your words as you do with your sword. And just like when you are sparring, the key is to maintain the proper distance between you and your opponent, be they friend or foe.”

As his instructor continues his example, Malcolm is surprised by his knowledge of the martial arts. It seems as if there is nothing that Nico isn’t informed about. Or perhaps that’s just what he wants Malcolm to think. Perhaps he knows just enough to create the illusion of a deeper understanding. Enough to teach this lesson and no more. 

“Are you listening, Malcolm?” Nico asks, eyebrow raised.

Malcolm blushes. There was no denying he’d been daydreaming.

“What were you thinking about?” Nico asks.

“I was wondering how you know so much about combat?” Malcolm admits.

“Were you now?” Rather than look upset at the interruption to his lesson, Nico seems pleased. He’s smiling widely, and sits back in his seat, gesturing at Malcolm. “Please, continue. What else?”

“I think, perhaps, that you don’t know about combat. Not really. I think, perhaps, that you studied the theory just enough to sound knowledgeable about it, and to use it for this lesson.”

“And why do you think that?”

“You’re not a knight, or a swordsman. You don’t have any calluses. So, no practical experience.”

“Very good, Malcolm. You are still surprising me.” Nico praises. “These are exactly the things you should be thinking about. Now, if I may finish my analogy?”

Malcolm can’t keep the pleased smile off of his face as he nods for Nico to continue.

“Thank you. As I was saying, when you’re developing relationships you must learn when to keep people at a distance, and when to let them in close to you. Like when you are sparring. There are times when you want to keep your opponent at a distance, and times when you want to draw them in, yes?”

Malcolm nods in agreement.

“And so it is when you are talking. Most of the time, you want to keep people at a distance. But sometimes, you want to draw them in. Gain their trust, make them drop their guard. That is when you’ll be able to learn the most from them.”

While the first week of lessons is spent in the library with Nico explaining theories and asking questions and judging Malcolm’s powers of observation, the weeks moving forward involve more practical exercises. They go out, into the castle and into the town. They start by watching. Observing people for hours and hours and examining every detail of their interactions. 

And then, Nico reveals what he had meant in their earliest lessons about leaving people wanting more, and about learning to use people’s desires for his own gain.

They talk about sex.

Malcolm knows about sex, of course. He spends too much time with the knights and squires not too. He hasn’t had it, yet. Hasn’t done anything more than kiss. He hasn’t met anyone he trusts enough to do more with. But he knows all about it. At least, he thought he did.

Nico teaches him so much more. 

They talk about it, only, and the discussions are no more sordid than what he hears from the knights on a regular basis. In fact, where the knights are crass and lewd, Nico is refined and intellectual. He sees sex as an art, a craft to be honed and perfected. Malcolm suspects that he knows what it is Nico does when he isn’t tutoring princes. He’s never told Malcolm what his profession is, but Malcolm can guess. Not a courtier, but a courtesan.

Nico introduces him to some  _ acquaintances, _ and they spend whole afternoons talking while Malcolm practices the skills he’s learned, and develops new ones as well. He learns the art of seduction, learns the power that a glance can hold, if combined with the right words. He learns that smiles can hold secrets, and that the right touch, at the right time, somewhere as innocuous as an elbow or shoulder, can turn the tide of a conversation. And most importantly, he learns the art of  _ subtlety _ , the power of suggestion.

When Nico asks him about his own experiences, Malcolm can feel the heat of the flush of embarrassment that spreads across his skin. He tells the truth, that he’s done nothing more than share a few kisses. Nico laughs, which only makes Malcolm blush more.

“Oh, Malcolm. I apologize. I swear to you I’m not laughing at your innocence, just your embarrassment. Forgive me, it was unkind. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he assures him. He seems sincere, though he’s still wiping tears from his eyes even as he apologizes.

Malcolm scowls, but he can feel the flush fading. He isn’t ashamed, really. He thinks, distantly, that he could probably have anyone he wanted, if he ever wished to expand his own horizons where intimacy was concerned. He’s just… never wanted to. And that’s his choice to make.

“I won’t push you, Malcolm, and your father made it very clear that yours was to be a theoretical education only. I have some… suggestions. Tips, things we’ll discuss in more detail later. Tricks of the trade, so to speak. But you needn’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. It should all come fairly naturally in the moment anyways. There’s some books you should read as well—”

“Books?” Malcolm asked, aghast. “There are books about  _ this _ ?”

“Oh yes, dear prince. Some have pictures. I’ll leave them here with you, and you can let me know if you have any questions.”

He  _ does _ have questions.

Malcolm learns quickly that there is more to sex than just sex. That there are ways to tease, to touch, to give just a taste, without giving too much away, or taking things too far. 

“Remember, dear prince. You want to leave them wanting more, you want them to come to you. You want them to be willing to tell you everything you want to know, agree to anything you ask. They won’t do that if they have what they want from you already.”

Malcolm doesn’t really understand until one day when Nico takes him to his  _ place of business.  _ On the surface it looks like a reputable tavern, and they stay in the main dining room, but Nico tells him to  _ watch _ , and he does. He sees the way the serving girls and boys flirt and touch and tease, skitting away quickly before the patrons can do any touching or teasing of their own. He sees the way the looks change, become weightier, full of intent, before patrons follow workers down the hall or up the stairs. He learns what Nico means about leaving them wanting more.

It’s… unsettling. But exciting. He feels powerful with his new found knowledge. Nico disguises him, covers his hair with a bit of cloth and some kohl around his eyes. Under Nico’s watchful eye he practices. Nico tells him who to talk to—only the customers he trusts the most, and only a bit of flirting. But Malcolm is surprised by the ease of it, how quickly he has them entranced, willing to buy him drinks or pay him for small favors. He never accepts, but it’s all so easy, so natural, and it frightens him, thrills him. 

It  _ is _ a weapon, he realizes. A powerful force he can use to shape a person’s will to his own. His father insisted from the beginning it was a necessary skill, one he must learn for the good of the kingdom. Nico reminds him of this as well, that he’s nothing more than a servant of the crown he himself wears, and it’s true. He serves the crown, the kingdom. Just as he trains to be the best warrior he can be, so must he strive to be the best diplomat as well. He doesn’t know how to feel about it, and the only person he thinks he could possibly talk to about it is Gil, and that… that will not be happening.

It’s bad enough that, as he’d read through the books Nico had given him, more often than not his mind would turn to Gil. It’s made their evening training sessions after his lessons with Nico almost torturous. He can’t even imagine talking about any of this with the knight.

Gil asks, sometimes, how his lessons are going, and Malcolm tries desperately hard not to blush as he mutters some inane response. ‘They’re going well,’ ‘They’re very interesting,’ ‘Nico is a good teacher.’

He’s torn, always torn. He’s proud of what he’s learned, of how well he’s taken to it. He’s excited about the new opportunities his father will be presenting him with in the months ahead after he turns 16. He  _ likes _ knowing things. Things that other people don’t know, or don’t know that he knows. He likes the power.

But it scares him, too. And, there’s a part of him that’s almost… ashamed. Like he’s… selling  _ himself _ , giving something away each time he flirts and teases just to get the answer to a silly question. He can’t explain it, and he can’t talk about it, so he ignores it.

Soon enough Gil stops asking. Soon enough, Malcolm learns to push aside his thoughts of the knight so that he isn’t constantly on edge when they’re together. 

The weeks go by in a blur, far faster than Malcolm ever could have imagined they would as he walked to his first lesson. He feels like he’s discovered a whole new world, one that was always there, but hiding just beneath the surface, and now he knows how to  _ see _ it, to interact with it, to  _ rule _ it. He is the Prince, after all. He has all the power, and now he knows how to use it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for missing Tuesday. That was entirely my fault (hey! It's Tori!) for being a procrastinating procrastinator who procrastinates and then got fucking _murdered_ by that season finale. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

The first rays of sun peeking over the endless horizon of the ocean cast a deep, orange glow out over the water. The contrasting blues of the sea and the sky, along with the deep shadows produced by the scattering of clouds make the whole scene look like it’s been painted on a canvas. The colors are rich and vibrant and Malcolm sits on the edge of the cliff with Sunshine on his arm, scratching lightly down her back and simply watching. Sunshine preens before shaking out her wings and settling back in. Malcolm smiles. The falcon had been a gift from his mother on the day of his knighting and of all the things anyone has ever gifted the prince, she is by far his favorite. For a little while, as the rest of his party sleeps, he gets to enjoy his solitude. 

It’s been a long couple of weeks, and their journey has only just begun.

Now sixteen and a knight of the realm, he has been given his first mission. It’s an easy one, child’s play, in the grand scheme of things. But both his father and his mother had deemed it important to get out into the kingdom on his own, to meet and dine with the leaders of the individual towns and smaller cities throughout their lands. It would show their people not only the King and Queens‘ trust in him, but give him a chance to truly understand those over which he would one day rule. There are a few things he has been tasked with while on the road. Some disagreements he is to mediate, land disputes to settle, gifts to offer. Nothing he has been asked to accomplish is life threatening or world changing in the grand scheme of things, but he is still determined to take everything as seriously as possible. 

There’s more at stake here than his reputation with the people.

Several weeks before he was tasked with this trip, Malcolm had received an official invite to Prince Cal’s crowning ceremony where he would officially take on the title of Crown Prince. Tensions between their fathers had done nothing but grow worse over the years since they’d last seen each other in person, though the two of them had done their best to remain good friends. It didn’t surprise Malcolm in the slightest that his father had outright refused to let him go. He’d used the excuse that as King he did not have any time to spare for such a long journey and Malcolm couldn’t possibly go to another kingdom on his own yet. 

But Malcolm is hoping that if he proves himself here, if he achieves his goals and proves he is fully capable of not only doing what is expected of him but remaining safe and diplomatic throughout his journey, perhaps he’ll be allowed to attend the ceremony anyway. 

It’s a small hope, but one to which he clings.

He is travelling with a small entourage, just half a dozen knights and four squires. JT and Dani were the first he asked to bring along, not wanting to go anywhere without his two closest friends. Gil is at his side as he has always been these last five years, of course. And every day they travel together Malcolm finds it more and more difficult to ignore the twisting in his gut whenever he thinks about the knight. 

But he manages.

Because he has a job to do.

For just over two weeks, they have been travelling from town to town, stopping and resting at inns and making sure they spread good coin around in the markets and taverns. It’s been an interesting journey so far. First, had been the two Lords squabbling over land. The winter floods that usually bring in the rich top soil this area relies on to be one of the top producers in the kingdom had been higher than ever this past season. And when the waters finally receded, the river that split the two lands had forged a new channel, cutting off access to a parcel that had belonged to Lord Reese. 

Unfortunately, the wording in both of their landed deeds specified the river as a border.

The letter of the law was that Lord Reese no longer owned that land. But Malcolm understood his initial argument and even sympathized with him. Eventually, though, he’d had to point out that with no bridges in place anywhere close enough to use daily it would be next to impossible for him to tend the land on his own. It took Malcolm explaining that his taxes and expected contributions to the Capitol would be adjusted accordingly while no other standings were affected for him to finally see reason and back down. 

After that, there had been a quick stop for a lavish evening meal and an overnight stay with Lady Summerfield further down the river. Her estate oversaw most of the fabric production that wound up as clothing for the nobles and royal family of Milton. Malcolm had enjoyed her company, even though she was a bit… rough around the edges. He doesn’t begrudge her for her stern nature. She runs a widespread enterprise that involves every stage of production from the shepherds that tend the thousands of livestock that provide the raw fiber down to the dyers that make her final product the highly sought after commodity it is. 

The next day had been a night on the road, ending in Dualfort, a beautiful city on their Eastern coast. 

Several evenings were spent in the company of Lord Arrington. There were so many nobles to meet and get to know, contracts to help renegotiate both between the Lord and other nobles and the Lord and the Crown. It takes every day they’re scheduled to be there and more than one sleepless night re-writing clauses and concessions between taxes and contributions, but it gets done, and they decide to celebrate. 

That had all led them to the previous evening.

A large, warm and welcoming tavern that was excited to serve a royal party - especially when all the townspeople came to make merry as well. Drink had been plentiful on their last stop in real beds before several days that would be spent on the road heading north with no proper town in sight. And  _ everyone  _ had partaken.

Two pints in, is when Bandon had walked through the doors.

Lord Arrington’s eldest was tall and pale with broad shoulders, brilliant red, curly hair that fell well down his back and a disarmingly beautiful smile. It didn’t take much for Malcolm to get flustered around the man, the way he smiled and looked at him, the shine in his green eyes always appearing like he was thinking of something he probably shouldn’t have been. But Malcolm remembered his training, his training under his father, under Gabrielle, and all his courtly tutors, and managed to maintain the stance of a prince. He was kind, and hadn’t shown the man any favors or special attention.

But there, at the tavern, with drink in his blood and no duties to attend to, he remembered Nico’s training. 

Though he’d taken in his lessons with gusto, Malcolm had never really had a chance to apply those lessons in real life yet completely on his own. The capitol was large and full of thousands of people. But while he met strangers there every day, he was a stranger to none. Everyone knew his face, and everyone  _ talked.  _ But here, out in the vast openness of the countryside, in a tavern full of people who’ve likely never ventured far out of their own world, something felt different. 

Malcolm had felt different.

So he had gestured to Brandon to join them at their table, ordered another ale, and put on his best smile. 

Conversation was as loud and bawdy as it ever was with his knights. There had been embarrassing tales told on almost every single one of them and laughter that rang out well into the evening. It had started with Brandon on the opposite side of the table, Malcolm sharing looks with him and soft smiles that lingered just long enough to hint at wanting something else but no longer. As the drink and food continued to flow well beyond what Malcolm had been able to keep up with, Brandon had made his way closer and closer. Laughter had still been ringing out in Malcolm’s ears when he felt a warm thigh press against his own and a soft breath against his neck. 

“Your Highness…”

Brandon’s tone had been nothing but polite and respectful, but there’d been something so different about the closeness, something that sent a thrill down Malcolm’s spine and made him hang his head before glancing over at the man with a soft smile. “I thought I told you to call me Malcolm?”

The smile he’d received in return had been breathtaking and the change in the room for Malcolm instant. 

Suddenly, no one else around the table mattered except the two of them - their quiet conversations and heated looks, small and subtle touches here and there. A hand on an arm, fingers brushing back a lock of hair. Malcolm had caught JT giving him encouraging smirks, barely noticed when Dani had disappeared with one of the serving girls, and tried  _ desperately  _ to ignore the fact that Gil had stopped drinking completely and had been trying to discreetly keep his eye on the prince while not…  _ interrupting  _ anything. 

When Brandon had gently taken him by the hand with a nod towards the back door and a subtle bite to his bottom lip, Malcolm had to force himself not to pay attention to the way Gil’s gaze followed them out. 

He knew in his head, without a doubt, that it was his position as Malcolm’s guard that had Gil’s attention so intently focused on his activities. 

But his heart had given a little lurch, whispered deceptive things in his ear that he seemed a little  _ too  _ interested. Malcolm knew better than to listen to his heart, though. 

Especially since the rest of him had been so intently focused elsewhere. 

Brandon’s kiss was searing. His hands curled into Malcolm’s hair with a gentle tug, enough to feel but not enough to be demanding. Malcolm sank into it, letting himself be lost to the feel of lips against his and the stubble against his face. It was his first real,  _ wanted _ kiss. There had been no cajoling, no surprises. He’d wanted this, been thinking about it all evening. And Brandon had been more than eager to lead him somewhere private. 

When he was pushed against the wall in the empty room they’d found themselves in, Malcolm found himself breathless. He was held close and kissed until his head swam, but then Brandon’s hands began to wander. First, a caress down his neck, over the length of Malcolm’s chest, and lower still.

“Wait,” Malcolm mumbled against Brandon’s lips, gripping the much taller man’s shoulders tight. “Wait, wait, wait. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Though Brandon’s hands stopped, he didn’t pull far away. He was still close enough to share Malcolm’s breath, thumb brushing gently against his cheek.

“What’s wrong, Malcolm?”

What’s wrong? What was wrong is that he didn’t know what was wrong. He’d wanted the kiss. Wanted to touch Brandon and truly get to experience this for the first time - the feel of another person and not just understand the theory of how to win someone over. But he couldn’t think straight, and he doesn’t know if it was the buzz in his head from the drink or the kiss, or the twist in his stomach from nerves, or even the lingering understanding that this - that Brandon - hadn’t been what he  _ really _ wanted. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly, ashamed.

But Brandon smiled, still soothing Malcolm with his quiet voice and soft touch. “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

Malcolm sighed and shook his head, hand still gripped tight into Brandon’s tunic. The other man smiled and gave him a soft laugh. The immediate feeling of shame was quickly replaced by an understanding that Brandon wasn’t laughing at him, he had simply been amused. 

“Don’t worry, then. As tempting a creature as you are, I much prefer my partners to have an enthusiastic amount of consent.”

“I didn’t really mind the kissing, though.”

“Well then,” Brandon placed a soft peck to Malcolm’s lips, then moved down his jaw, mouthing at the long lines of his neck with gentle brushes of his lips. “Who am I to deny the Prince? Just tell me to stop whenever you need.”

They had spent the majority of the evening in that room, Malcolm learning all  _ sorts  _ of ways that kissing could feel amazing and how deeply satisfying the touch of another person could be. When they’d both tired of having their mouths on one another, kissing had become a quiet, pleasant conversation with lingering touches and soft laughter that spread a warmth through his body that Malcolm won’t quickly forget. 

“You know,” Gil’s voice snaps Malcolm out of his memories. He turns to watch his knight approach from the footpath that leads to the edge of the cliff where Malcolm is currently sitting. The first rays of sunrise illuminate his features and cast a deep, warm glow around him and the view of the village below. Malcolm feels that familiar flutter in his stomach and waits with a patient, hidden smile for whatever it is the older man has to say to him. “I find it difficult to keep a watchful eye over my charge if said charge disappears before the light of dawn and doesn’t let anyone know where he is going.”

Gil’s easy grin betrays the seriousness of his words. While he takes a seat next to Malcolm on the smooth, flat rock of the ground, Malcolm goes back to petting Sunshine with a smirk. “Maybe. But you always find me, no matter how hard I try to get away.” Not that he’s ever actually tried. Malcolm can’t seem to stop himself moving towards Gil in almost every situation he’s in lately. Like hell he’s going to purposely move away from the man.

“I will always come find you.” Gil’s reassurance is immediate and a little stronger than Malcolm expects. It makes his heart lurch into his throat and Sunshine squawks at him when his fingers clench too tight in her feathers. But the sound pulls him out of his head and Malcolm is able to take a deep breath. Gil is his guard. A knight. It is his job to protect Malcolm and that includes searching for him when he’s lost.

Malcolm just wishes it wasn’t  _ just  _ because it is his job.

“I should also probably point out that leaving a bed partner to wake up alone isn’t  _ really  _ a chivalrous thing to do.” Gil nudges Malcolm with his shoulder, a single eyebrow raised. 

At first, all Malcolm can do is laugh. He’d never divulged Nico’s lessons or that he’d been receiving any education of the sort. So Gil may know Malcolm better that anyone else, but he still doesn’t know  _ everything _ . He doesn’t know that Malcolm knows how to read when a situation calls for a little more finesse, when someone is looking for the intimacy of laying together vs a warm body for a quick release. Gil doesn’t know that Malcolm has been taught how to sway someone to accept whatever  _ Malcolm  _ is comfortable with. Not that he’s ever gotten any hands on experience yet - or that he really wants to. How do you explain to the only person you’ve ever actually had any desire to seduce, that you’ve been  _ trained  _ how to do it?

That answer is easy.

You don’t.

When Malcolm’s laughter dies down to a quiet chuckle, he shakes his head. “Brandon left, in good spirits, before I ever went to sleep,” he assures Gil. But he can’t keep looking at him, can’t keep staring into his deep brown eyes and not get lost in the way the morning sun makes them shine brighter than ever, with a golden glint that Malcolm wants to lose himself in. So he looks away, forces himself to turn back towards the horizon where the water glistens and puffs of soft clouds are cast in orange and purple shadows. 

Gil must see something in his face though, something that gives away the spike of frustration he feels. When Gil reaches for Malcolm, touches him with his broad, warm hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck, he tenses for the briefest of moments before Gil’s touch becomes a gentle squeeze and every muscle in Malcolm’s body seems to relax at once. 

“He may have left in good spirits, but are you?” When Malcolm doesn’t respond right away Gil squeezes again. “Was that your first?”

Since Gil doesn’t specify first  _ what  _ Malcolm nods shallowly. “It was my first a lot of things,” he admits. They may not have had sex, or even removed their clothing, but Malcolm had never been that close to someone, that intimate, and every touch - as thrilling as all of them had been - had seemed terrifying at first. 

“Are you okay?” Gil's deep, honest concern is clear in not just his words, but in the way he looks at Malcolm, the way he keeps a hold of him, already ready to comfort if needed. 

So Malcolm smiles, because even if he hadn’t been, Gil’s presence always seems to make it true. “I’m absolutely fine. I promise, Gil.”

At first it looks like Gil doesn’t believe him, even opens his mouth as if to protest. But, luckily, after keeping Malcolm’s steady gaze for a moment, he backs down - though with a heavy sigh. “Alright, if you insist. But if you change your mind, or realize you’re not as fine as you thought, you’ll let me know?”

“You’ll be the first,” Malcolm assures him. 

“I better be.”

They fall silent for a few minutes, simply watching the horizon and the sun finally breaking away from the line of the water. Once there’s a visible gap there, Malcolm hangs his head, only then realizing that Gil’s hand never left his neck. He bites his lip and swallows down a surge of heat and emotion before clearing his throat. 

“We should get moving,” he says, voice broken and barely above a whisper from the way his body is twisting internally beneath Gil’s touch. “It’s a long way to the Berkhead estate and we still need to pack up and ready the horses.” 

Malcolm tries to ignore the way he suddenly feels cold when Gil’s hand slips away. But either way, he can’t dwell on it.

They have a long journey ahead. 

  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that underage warning we've added? This chapter is why. Malcolm is 16, Carter is much older. It isn't explicit, but there is some unwanted touching/kissing that gets a little uncomfy.
> 
> Also, there's very brief mentions of forced miscarriage.

The Berkhead Estate is the last official stop on their tour of the kingdom, and though the trip has gone extremely well so far, it has been  _ long, _ and Malcolm is ready to return home and sleep in his own bed and eat food not prepared over a campfire. Not that all of their nights have been spent on the road, but it’s started to feel that way. 

He’s tired. Tired of traveling, of mediating, of  _ flirting _ , of living up to expectations. But, he’s confident he’s done well so far, and hopes that the success of this trip will be enough to convince his father that he can travel to Ceron for Cal’s crowning. 

Malcolm’s not exactly sure what the purpose of his visit to the Berkhead Estate is. The only task he’d been given was to deliver a gift that his father sent along; a small, ornate box. It’s quite intricate in its design—an interesting gift for a Lord from the King. His father had given him no other instructions, he’d only stressed the importance of the box being delivered safely and by Malcolm personally. It seems an oddly simple task compared to the rest of his responsibilities throughout the trip, but now, at the end of their journey, Malcolm is glad not to worry about accomplishing anything more difficult. 

His father speaks highly of Lord Carter, and Malcolm knows the king considers him an important ally, but he’s never understood  _ why _ , exactly. The Berkhead Estate isn’t located in a strategic position, and it’s industries, while successful, don’t add much to the overall wealth of the kingdom like some of the other estates they’d visited before. He  _ does _ know that his mother is particularly fond of the Lord’s wife, Lady Blair. They’d grown up together in the Capital before Blair had married Carter and moved to his estate. 

He understands his mother’s friendship with Lady Blair, but his father has never been one to have a  _ friend _ , unless the relationship was of some benefit to him. Malcolm secretly hopes this visit will shed some light on why his father values Lord Carter’s acquaintance so highly. 

They arrive at the Berkhead manor early in the afternoon and are met by both the Lord and Lady. Lord Carter is a serious man; large, imposing, and completely bald. Lady Blair is slight and fair, with long blonde hair and an easy smile that helps to counter her husband’s gruffness. Lord Carter’s welcome is sincere, if not exactly warm, but Malcolm is still glad they won’t be spending long at the estate. There’s something off putting about the man that he can’t quite place, but it makes him uneasy.

Almost immediately after they arrive, Lord Carter excuses himself to attend to some urgent matter, leaving his wife to ensure their party is settled. She escorts Malcolm to his chambers herself, and asks about his mother. Malcolm is more than happy to talk of family and home, and they spend nearly two hours talking. He likes Blair. She’s kind and smart, and there’s a glow about her, something in the way she smiles that’s contagious and lifts Malcolm’s spirits. And yet, he senses something else… something in the way she glances at the door too frequently, or cuts herself off mid-sentence on more than one occasion. She’s nervous, not of him, but of  _ something _ . He can’t ask, of course, they’ve only known each other for two hours, but he can watch, and maybe even help.

There’s a banquet that evening—there’s always a banquet—and Malcolm is offered the seat at Lord Carter’s right hand. It’s the perfect opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about what exactly it is his father sees in the man. But, less than an hour into the meal, Malcolm already begins to despair of discovering anything at all. The man is surly, responding to all of Malcolm’s attempts at conversation with clipped responses, barely looking at him when he speaks. It’s not as if Malcolm is distracting him from anything, because he’s not talking to his wife, either. In fact he’s somehow being even more dismissive of Blair than he is of Malcolm, barely even acknowledging her presence next to him. He stares resolutely ahead, eating and drinking in silence, seemingly uninterested in anything that’s going on around him.

As the evening wears on, Malcolm slowly gives up on making conversation with Lord Carter. Talking with Lady Blair is awkward as they’re forced to lean across the table and talk around Carter, and what few words they share are strained and overly polite, the tension she’d been carrying earlier even more apparent now. Her smile is strained, forced, and she holds herself stiffly in her chair. But still, he can’t tell why, and finally Malcolm settles on amusing himself by looking around the hall, observing the various interactions while he waits until it’s late enough to excuse himself without being rude. 

As Malcolm lets his gaze wander aimlessly back and forth across the hall, he catches Lord Carter’s eyes on him more than once. It’s as if he’s waiting for something, expecting something from Malcolm, even though he’s shut down each of Malcolm’s attempts at interaction. Malcolm sighs quietly in frustration. It isn’t often that he’s completely unable to engage another person in conversation, and he’s never met a man so uninterested in talking about himself as Lord Carter. What  _ does  _ his father see in the man?

Then, he remembers the box, sitting in his room with the rest of his baggage, and perks up.

“Lord Carter, I’ve just remembered! My father sent a gift for you. Shall I bring it with me when we meet in the morning?” He doesn’t even know  _ when  _ they are meeting in the morning, because Carter hasn’t even said enough to tell him of his plans for the rest of Malcolm’s visit.

This, finally, seems to pique the man’s interest. He turns quickly, eyes widening in real interest for the first time since they’d arrived. 

“A gift? Is that so? Well, why wait, why don’t you fetch it now? A servant will show you to my chambers,” he suggests, pushing away from the table and rising to his feet.

Eyebrows raised in surprise at the man’s sudden eagerness, Malcolm stands as well, looking around for Gil. The knight is with the rest of their party towards the far end of the hall, clearly having a much better time than Malcolm is, and he decides not to bother him. He’s safe here.

Lord Carter is already walking out of the hall without a word of parting to his wife or any of the others at the table. 

“Um, if you’ll excuse me, Lady Blair,” Malcolm says with a slight bow. “I’m retiring for the evening. I look forward to speaking with you more in the morning.”

Blair smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes, and nods in reply before dropping her gaze to her lap. He hurries off without giving it much more thought, glad of the excuse to leave the banquet, and not wanting to keep Lord Carter waiting any longer than necessary.

He fetches the box and follows a servant through the halls to the royal wing, and receives an immediate invitation to enter when he knocks on the door of Lord Carter’s chambers.

The room is dark, the only light coming from a low burning fire and a handful of candles spread throughout the room. There are furs everywhere—Lord Carter is clearly an avid hunter. Carter himself is standing next to the fireplace, a wine glass in hand. He doesn’t say anything as Malcolm walks in, sipping slowly from his glass and watching Malcolm’s approach with the steady gaze of a hunter. It puts Malcolm on edge, suddenly. The dismissive manner in which Carter had treated him all evening is gone, replaced with an unnerving level of attention.

Malcolm takes a steadying breath as he reaches the fireplace, and holds up the box.

“From my father,” he says simply.

Carter snatches it from Malcolm’s hands and turns abruptly away, moving to his desk, back to Malcolm as he examines the box. Malcolm can’t see what Carter is doing, or what’s inside, and he waits uncertainly by the fireplace, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he contemplates leaving and wonders if his presence is still needed or if Carter has already forgotten about him. 

“Have you ever seen a puzzle box, Prince Malcolm?” Carter asks suddenly, turning back to look at him, more relaxed than Malcolm has seen him the whole evening.

“I haven’t,” Malcolm admits. 

“Would you like to try? I hear you're quite smart for your age. I’ve put it back together, why don’t you try your hand at opening it?”

Malcolm shrugs, intrigued, and joins Carter by the desk. There’s a small scrap of paper laying next to the box, and Malcolm sees his father’s familiar signature at the bottom, but can’t read anymore of it.  _ All this for one little note?  _ Malcolm wonders. 

He looks down at the box, reaching out to pick it up, and glancing back at Carter for permission before picking it up and examining it more closely. He’d given it a brief glance when his father had first given it to him, but hadn’t noticed the strange grooves and the lack of latch or hinge. He presses along the edges, testing what seams he can see, and quickly becomes enthralled with the puzzle. Carter had opened it within seconds, clearly familiar with the design, and Malcolm is determined to discover the trick as well.

He almost forgets that Carter is even there as he becomes fully immersed in the task before him, when suddenly there’s a body pressing against his back, and arms wrapping around him from behind, encasing him and blocking him in against the desk. He stiffens in surprise, breath catching in his throat as he feels Carter pressing against him in a  _ very  _ intimate manner. 

“Start here,” the man whispers into Malcolm’s ear as he covers Malcolm’s hands with his own and guides them to one corner of the box, pressing just so and sliding a slim piece of wood free. He keeps his head bowed and his mouth uncomfortably close to Malcolm’s ear, so that he can feel the warm slide of each breath against it.

Malcolm recovers from his initial shock and presses in as close to the desk as he can, hands shaking slightly as he works out the rest of the puzzle, finally revealing the contents of the box.

Inside is a small vial wrapped loosely in soft fabric and a longer note, also from his father. He sets the box down but Carter doesn’t move away. Malcolm doesn’t move either, hands twisted into fists on either side of the box, keeping as close to the desk and as far from Carter’s imposing presence as he can, head bowed in a further attempt to distance himself from Carter. His eyes fall on the note and a few of the words catch his attention. He starts to read, hardly able to believe what he finds written clearly in his father’s familiar handwriting:

_ Carter, _

__ _ I must admit I was surprised when I received your request, however I am glad that you sought my guidance rather than taking matters into your own hands. Your loyalty and the assistance you have provided me in the past are, of course, not forgotten, and I am happy to grant your request. In fact, I may be able to help with the task itself. You’ll find this tincture to be very effective in not only eliminating the bastard child and it’s mother, but also in creating the illusion that the miscarriage is completely natural.  _

_ I trust my son has performed his task of delivering this gift to you satisfactorily, and that he will provide you with any other services you may require. _

Malcolm’s vision blurs, his whole existence narrowing down to a paragraph written on a simple piece of paper. His breath is coming faster, chest rising and falling noticeably as he struggles to grasp what he’s just read, what the words  _ mean _ .

All the while, Cater is touching him, though he doesn’t realize it. The heavy weight of the larger man's hands on his arms goes unnoticed as he reads, until they’re sliding over his biceps and further up, coming to rest on his shoulders. He draws Malcolm upright with a firm grip, pulling him in close and leaning in so he can whisper into Malcolm’s ear once more.

“I apologize if I’ve been rude. I’ve been under some stress lately. Marital problems, you see,” he says softly as he rubs his thumbs along the bare skin of Malcolm’s neck.

_ Think, think, think, _ Malcolm tells himself, struggling to gather his thoughts, to form a plan, some sort of response.

“What, ah. What kind of problems?” he manages to ask, voice shaky and low.

Carter is moving his hands once more, sliding them back down along Malcolm’s arms and bringing them forward to rest on his hips. Malcolm nearly bolts, but his hands still, moving no further and he forces himself to stay, to wait for a response. Maybe he can… he can figure something out. To stop whatever Carter has been planning.

“My wife is pregnant,” Carter responds, nuzzling against Malcolm’s neck and pressing an open mouthed kiss to his jaw.

“And that’s bad?” Malcolm presses, his voice gaining strength as he steadies himself, regaining control of his senses.

“We’ve been married nearly 20 years,” Carter hisses out, stepping back suddenly and turning to pace between the fireplace and desk as he continues to speak, voice full of anger. “Twenty years, and nothing. Now, suddenly, she’s carrying a child? I suspected she’d taken a lover, but to have  _ proof _ . Proof for the whole court to see!”

Malcolm scrambles away from the desk as soon as he’s able, moving towards the door. Yet, something stops him. He should leave while he can. Carter’s intentions are clear and his father had practically given the man permission to do with Malcolm as he pleased. But, if he’s going to stop Carter from having Blair killed, he needs more information, he needs to be absolutely sure of the man’s intentions.

He can… he can do this. Carter surprised him, earlier, but now he knows what to expect. The note from his father threw him off, caused him to drop his guard but that won’t happen again. This is what he’d spent all those weeks training for. He can  _ do  _ this.

“I’m sorry. That must be devastating,” he says, turning to face Cartre once more, shoulders squared and head held high as he meets Carter’s still-angry glare with his own even gaze. He cocks his head to the side, just a little, relaxing his posture. Lowering his guard, or at least appearing to do so. 

It works, drawing Carter up short as he bites back on whatever harsh reply he’d had prepared. He looks Malcolm up and down, gaze hungry, and Malcolm suppresses the urge to shudder. It’s just a look. And maybe a touch or two, even some kissing. It’s just… a trick. A game, an exchange. Looks and touches for information that could save someone’s life. It seems like more than a fair trade.

He doesn’t move, letting Carter come to him instead. The man is a hunter, and Malcolm is content to play the prey. 

“I’ve given her everything, everything but that. And she wasn’t satisfied. And now she’s going to ruin my name. I can’t let that happen,” Carter explains, his voice softer and it sounds almost as if he’s pleading, begging for understanding.

“Of course not,” Malcolm agrees, his tone sickeningly sincere.

Carter’s in front of him once more, reaching out to run the back of his finger down Malcolm’s cheek like he’s calming a skittish animal.  _ Hunter and prey. _

Malcolm lets his eyelids flutter closed and turns his head into the touch. 

“My father’s gift, it will help you?” Malcolm murmurs, eyes sliding up to meet Carter’s, though he keeps his head lowered and lids hooded and looks up at him through his lashes.

“It will. A simple potion, mixed into her wine at dinner. By morning, the child will be dead, and so will she.” His hand is on Malcolm’s shoulder once more—just one, this time. The other creeps up to rest on his hip.

Before Carter can pull him close, Malcolm steps into the man’s space himself. Close, but not touching. Eager, but reserved.  _ Leave them wanting more, _ Nico’s words play in his head.

Carter leans in and presses a string of kisses along Malcolm’s jaw and neck, and the hand on his hip drifts, fingers slipping in under his tunic to rub at the bare skin there. Malcolm sucks in a startled breath and it sounds like he wants it.  _ Just kisses. Just touches. It means nothing.  _ And he has one more question to ask.

He pulls back slightly, bringing up his own hand to rest against Carter’s chest, a flimsy barrier but it’s an added measure of control that helps to settle him. 

“And if I may ask, Lord Carter,” he begins, letting his hand wander down towards his side, “what service did you supply that has left my father the king in your debt? Not many can boast of such a thing.” 

If Carter finds his question suspicious he doesn’t show it. He smiles down at Malcolm and there’s obvious pride in his gaze, his ego sufficiently stroked by Malcolm’s careful wording. “Your father and I share many common interests, and I’ve assisted him in pursuing those interests several times,” Carter tells him. “In fact, he owes me a great deal more." He looks Malcolm up and down with a smirk, like Malcolm is a prize he's just won. Malcolm forces himself to smile widely, blankly, and doesn't step away despite how badly he wants to.

"I'm glad I could be of service, both to you and my father," he lies. 

Carter chuckles at that, and then he's moving faster than Malcolm can anticipate, wrapping both arms around Malcolm's waist and pulling him in tight. 

He leans down to kiss Malcolm and Malcolm obliges, opening to him when he swipes his tongue across Malcolm's lips.

He doubts Carter will tell him anything more specific about his dealings with his father, and he's not interested in allowing things to go much further. He turns the whole of his focus onto the task of giving Carter just enough to satisfy him and put to rest any lingering suspicions of Malcolm's motives the man may have.

Carter walks backwards, pulling Malcolm along with him as he sinks down into a chair. Malcolm allows himself to be drawn down into the imposing man’s lap, leaning in for another kiss as he straddles the larger man’s legs. 

When Carter slides his hands from Malcolm’s waist lower, down and around to cup his ass, Malcolm stiffens and pulls back.

“Lord Carter,” he admonishes, taking hold of the man’s wrists and urging his hands forward once more.

Carter resists, pulling Malcolm in tight against him in one sharp motion that unsettles Malcolm’s balance and causes him to fall against Carter’s. Malcolm recovers quickly, pushing firmly against the larger man’s chest and rising up onto his knees. His pulse is racing as a sudden surge of adrenaline spikes through him as he realizes that Carter could do whatever he wanted and Malcolm would be powerless to stop him.

“Lord Carter, enough!” he exclaims.

“Little minx,” Carter growls, but he removes his hands. “Lose your nerve, did you?”

Malcolm relaxes slightly, settling back down onto Carter’s thighs.

“I can’t stay much longer. People will talk,” he murmurs demurely, running his hands across up Carter’s chest and across his shoulders appeasingly.

“Past your bedtime, is it, little Prince?” Carter taunts, wrapping his arms around Malcolm’s waist and shoulder, but nothing more.

Malcolm ignores the jibe and leans in to kiss the smug smile off the man’s face. He doesn’t enjoy it, not like he did with Brandon, but when Carter moans into the kiss he feels a strange thrill all the same. His heart is still pounding in his chest, his senses heightened and waiting for any sign of further threat, but none comes.

He sinks further into Carter’s embrace and loses himself to the touches and tastes and sounds.

Nearly all the candles have burned out by the time Malcolm leaves. He starts towards his chambers but can’t quite bring himself to return. He needs space. He needs…

He doesn’t know what he needs. As he walks through the empty corridors he realizes he’s shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. He’s wound tight as a spring, tense and  _ angry _ . His father had condoned the murder of an unborn baby and its mother—a close friend of his own wife. Not only condoned, but provided aid. And he’d forced Malcolm to be an accessory, used him to carry the death sentence. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he’s just walking, his mind racing furiously as he starts to process everything that had happened that evening.

He finds his way to a balcony, the closest thing to battlements he’ll find at the Berkhead Manor. The cool, crisp evening air helps to calm his nerves and his racing heart as he sucks in deep, steady breaths. His head begins to clear, and he starts to plan.


	16. Chapter 16

Gil does not like Carter Berkhead. 

From the moment he’d greeted their party something had seemed off about the man, something in the way he held himself, how he spoke to the Prince, how he ignored almost everyone else around him, including his own wife. Though he’s been duped by kindness once or twice in his life, Gil’s immediate gut instincts when it comes to terrible people have never been wrong.

He’s proved right before they ever leave the courtyard of the estate. 

While Malcolm is making polite introductory conversation with Lady Blair, Carter’s eyes begin to wander up and down the Prince’s slight form. There’s more than just a hint of appreciation and desire in the calculating look as he spends far too long staring. When the Lord discreetly licks at his bottom lip and smirks, it takes all of Gil’s effort and a white knuckled grip on the pommel of his sword to keep from yanking the Lord back and as far away from the Prince as possible. 

It doesn’t get any better.

Carter is exceptional at schooling his features when the cause of whatever his emotions are isn’t looking - and probably when he’s reasonably sure no one else is looking either. Before the evening meal, Gil has noticed through close, but discreet observation that Carter is having affairs with a few of his male staff, he respects - and may even be close friends with - his seneschal, he  _ hates  _ his wife, and he’s lusting after the young prince.

Thankfully, once the banquet hall begins to fill the Lord all but shuts down and Gil gets a repreive from having to see such a display. Around the manor as they had been introduced and shown the grounds, Carter had the opportunity to feel people weren’t looking. But here, at the center of the high table  _ literally _ lording over all, he has no such luxury. 

That doesn’t stop the lingering gazes, the wandering eyes, even if he is keeping the worst of his thoughts from his face. 

Since they’re in the home of one of the king’s most trusted advisors, Malcolm had insisted Gil needn’t be at his side through dinner - that not only would it have been rude, it would also show a lack of faith in the ability of Carter to protect his guests. Problem being, of course, that Gil doesn’t trust the man. He doesn’t trust Carter as far as he can throw him, and that the king considers THIS man a good friend makes all the conflicted, hazy misgivings he has had about his king over the last five years go yet another shade darker. 

But he does as his Prince bids and takes a seat as a guest, just far enough away he can’t hear the conversations at the high table but close enough he can be there in a heartbeat if need be.

At least Malcolm understands a good compromise.

Gil doesn’t eat much, stomach curling in a way he is unused to. He keeps vigilant watch around the hall while maintaining the barest cover of interest to the jovial conversations around him with the other guests and his squires. Every time his gaze passes Malcolm, the boy seems more and more dejected and closed off - though he is covering it well to the casual observer - and Gil’s stomach twists further.

After a particularly bawdy joke from Dani leaves their group in uproarious laughter, Gil looks up to find Carter leading Malcolm from the hall. Though Gil cannot see his Prince’s face from this vantage point, after so many years in each other’s pockets he can read the kid’s body language from a mile away. His shoulders are pulled back and tense, but he’s moving quickly with the barest hint of a bounce in his step. He’s nervous, but excited for something.

Malcolm is gone from the hall a moment later and Gil doesn’t eat anything else.

The meal lasts at least another hour until the Lady of the Estate finally leaves as well. Only then is it considered polite to make their own ways from the hall. Since he hadn’t seen Malcolm return, Gil assumes he had made his way back to their party’s suite of rooms in the south wing. 

Though the fires have been freshly lit for the evening, the rooms are empty, and Gil goes to look for his Prince.

He shouldn’t.

A level of security and safety should be assumed in the walls of such a close ally and friend to the King. Malcolm hadn’t been wrong about that. But as Gil stalks the halls to find one of the estate’s staff members that had hovered near the high table all evening he reminds himself that there is a reason King Martin has kept him in his position for so long. Gil is hyper vigilant at the most peaceful of times when it comes to the Prince’s safety and has even been known to let his over protectiveness show within the thick, sturdy walls of their castle. 

Despite his internal reminder, Gil is well aware that this, somehow, feels different.

He is just not going to dwell on it.

At all.

It takes him longer than he would prefer but eventually Gil finds a guard posted at one end of a rather ostentatious hall. It’s the most well appointed ‘public’ area he has come across so far, so he assumes it is the Lord and Lady’s wing.

“Good evening,” he greets the older, lightly armored man with a small nod of his head. “Have you seen His Highness come through here by any chance?” Gil doesn’t bother beating around the bush. His insignia and armor marks him as a knight and part of the royal guard so there is no need for formalities.

The guard flashes a smirk before quickly schooling his features into something neutral once more.

“Yes, Sir. He is still with Lord Carter in his chambers.”

Something twists in Gil’s chest and he very purposely forces himself not to react. “Can you point me in that direction? I need to speak with him at once.”

“Sorry. The door is barred which means with the exception of life or death, no one is to disturb them.”

Gil wants to punch the man who has let an amused smirk slip back onto his features.

He wants to curse.

He wants to slam doors and make up a terrible lie to barge in there.

But he does none of that. He doesn’t react outwardly at all other than a brief, sharp nod and to turn, wordlessly, on his heels.

“He’s perfectly safe,” the guard offers unprompted to Gil’s retreating back. “As I’m sure he will inform you himself in the  _ morning. _ ”

It takes every ounce of Gil’s training and will power not to slam the hall door so hard it breaks.

* * *

Their guest suite in Berkhead’s manor is quite large. A central sitting area with a small balcony overlooking the gardens has four doors that lead to bedrooms, two on either side. He and Malcolm each have their own room while the rest of the party shares the remaining two. 

Everyone is, unsurprisingly, still awake and gathered on the plush couches surrounding the round stone fireplace at the center of the room. There are a couple of servants relaxing with them, sharing drink and small baked sweets around the room. 

Dani and JT move to stand when he enters but he waves them off, heading directly for his own room to shed his armor and attempt to cool his head. As he tosses each piece to the bed Gil realizes that none of it makes him feel any lighter and he can’t even muster up any scorn for himself being so irresponsible with his armor. 

Normally, he only removes it when he knows his Prince is safe. When he can take the time and care to handle the metal and leather as such finery deserves, to tend to the build up of dirt and oils to make sure that it will continue to keep HIM safe so he can continue to keep Malcolm safe. 

But Malcolm IS safe. 

He’s with the Lord of the estate, who has his own guards and his own security. None of that helps ease the crushing weight of the fact that Malcolm is  _ with  _ the Lord of the estate. 

It is a far heavier thought than his bulkiest armor could ever be.

Because the armor allows Gil to keep the boy safe.

But he has no idea how to protect him from  _ that. _

Less than a week earlier, he had been so happy to see the young prince finally letting go and opening up to someone. The young lord who had whisked him away in that tavern had been well liked in the village, easy with his smiles and his affections,  _ kind.  _ Not to mention, much closer to Prince Malcolm in age. But Carter is  _ none  _ of those things. And while there will never be anyone, excepting his parents, who  _ truly  _ has more power over Malcolm than he holds himself, having the ear of the king still makes it a perilous road to travel. Especially with the way the boy treats his own father. 

With the appropriate amount of respect one should have for their father, and the king, and no small amount of fear.

Even if the prince won’t admit it. __

After a change into clean, black linen trousers and a simple blue tunic, Gil forces himself to take a deep breath and attempt to join his friends. 

JT hands him a mug of sweet ale. 

Dani makes room for him on her sofa.

Sir Ruth tries to get him caught up in a conversation on the local beauties. Normally, he doesn’t shy away from that topic. The young knight has a knack for batting her lashes and sussing out people’s proclivities - usually opting to shove those who don’t give her a second glance in Gil’s direction. Though he hardly ever beds any of them (he does have some sense of decency, after all), Gil realizes with a start that he hasn’t been interested in anyone he has met OR Ruth’s favorite topic of conversation in several months.

His mostly empty stomach roils and he stands, suddenly needing fresher, quieter air. 

The doors that lead out to the small ledge thankfully block out almost all sound from inside when closed. It is blissfully silent, the moon still somewhat low over the line of trees in the distance and a blanket of stars over head. He breathes deeply, letting the cool northern air fill his lungs and attempting to picture himself expelling all his worries with every exhale.

It doesn’t work but it’s a nice enough thought.

Despite the season, nights are always a bit chilly this far north, but Gil finds he is too worked up to really even notice. For a long time, he stands there, still as a statue save an occasional sip of his drink, and stares at the brilliant night sky.

He lets his mind wander, chases tendrils of memories here and there, running away from his current concerns, until he notices a constellation that brings him back to his days with Sir Turner, when most evenings were small lessons in astronomy, jokes and stories about the shapes and historical figures laid out in the sky.

He hasn’t had much time for star gazing lately.

“Gil?”

He turns to find Dani poking her head through the open door. Apparently he hadn’t noticed there is no more raucous laughter coming from within.

“You still alive out here?”

“For some definition of the word, I’m sure.” 

Dani steps out onto the balcony but leaves the door open, staying near enough to still get the effects of the warmth of the room to combat the chill of the evening. When he peeks inside Gil realizes that it’s not just silent, but empty and he startles, not realizing he’s been out here for so long.

“You going to be turning in soon, too?” He asks her with a glance over her shoulder.

“Eventually,” she nods with a smirk. “But some of the others were complaining about the cold and wanted to crawl into the covers before it got worse.” There’s a humor in her eyes that gets him to smile. They’d spent years together in his old posting at the border. They know what cold really feels like. They also know some of the other knights wouldn’t last a day out there during the winter. Well, more likely wouldn’t last a night. 

“I wanted to check on you, though. You seem kind of, off?” The light in her eyes disappears, replaced with a soft kind of concern she reserves only for her closest friends - so JT, Malcolm, and himself. 

Gil can’t help but sigh and shake his head, feeling a million different things at once, including shame for latching on and not letting go.

“I’m always a little difficult when we’re out of the castle and His Highness is out of sight. You know that.” It’s a deflection, and a poor excuse for one at that. In five years Gil can’t remember a time he’s been  _ this  _ worked up over the kid when he wasn’t actually in immediate danger. 

“He isn’t just a prince,” Dani reminds him, not unkindly. “He is a knight of the realm. Which, despite a few naysayers, is a title he earned by his own sword.” 

She’s completely correct, of course. At just sixteen, Malcolm bests even some of the most talented swordsmen with ease. Gil has to work extremely hard to beat him in one on one and he would have no other at his side in a true combat against their foes. 

“This feels different,” Gil admits with a heavy sigh. He drowns the rest of his ale and rolls the tankard between his hands. “I swore to protect him and while he’s physically safe where he is…” Gil trails off, unwilling to voice anything else out loud. 

“You’re his guard.” Dani’s tone has gone harsh and critical. She crosses her arms with a frown. “Not his chastity belt.”

“I’m also his friend.” Gil shakes his head, trying to not get angry at her for pointing out what he’s already well aware of. His job is to guard the Prince, to keep him alive and whole. Not to cast judgement over his bed partners. Despite that... “And I would worry about any friends in the hands of that -” he is saved from saying something unworthy about a high ranking noble by the sound of the outer door to their suite slamming shut. 

Dani turns and Gil leans over to be able to see around her to find their prince stalking towards his own room, not looking anywhere save the ground just in front of his feet. 

_ This  _ is what he’d been so worried about. 

Gil barely pays any attention to how Dani tries to stop him, brushing past the hand she holds out and the warnings she says aloud. Before he’s even inside, Malcolm’s door slams, but he’s at it instantly, glad to see the Prince had made no attempt to lock anyone out. 

With much more care than Malcolm had, Gil makes sure the door latches quietly before turning to find Malcolm already stripped down to just his trousers and scrubbing a rough cloth over his chest while swishing something around in his mouth. From the scent he can tell it’s the vinegar mix they use to help keep their teeth as clean as they can on the road. Gil stays quiet, leaning back against the heavy door with his arms crossed while the Prince spits into a small pot then continues to rub every inch of uncovered skin he can reach until he’s beginning to turn red and raw from it. 

“It’s not going to help,” he eventually offers the prince, quietly, with no small amount of regret coloring his words. 

Malcolm slaps the wet cloth onto the side table and makes a noise of frustration, then tugs at his messy curls as he makes his way towards the large window on the other side of the room and throws it open. He moves as if to bodily throw himself from it, but winds up slumped heavily with his elbows against the wide stone sill and his head hung low.

Sensing the prince getting lost in his own thoughts, Gil crosses the room as well, taking care not to be too silent so he doesn’t sneak up on his prince. He leans against the other side of the open window, upright and staring out at the gardens, and waits.

They stay there, side by side, in silence, for a long time. 

Eventually, Malcolm sighs, but doesn’t pick his head up. 

“I never,” he starts, but shakes his head and doesn’t continue. 

Gil is shocked by the urge that washes over him to reach out and console the prince with touch, to grab him by the shoulders and give him whatever he needs to get through whatever he’s regretting.

He tightens the grip he has on his own emotions, and instead, nudges Malcolm’s shin with his foot as a gentle reminder that he’s still there.

“I need your help with something,” Malcolm says without looking up.

“Anything.” 

Gil’s response is immediate. Earnest. And he finds it’s completely true.

It also makes Malcolm finally look up. 

There’s a startled expression in his blue eyes, made eerily intense by the reflection of the moon that’s now far overhead. The surprise shifts to a curious glance, his brows knitting together as the prince seems to think something over. Gil holds himself stiff and still as he’s scrutinized, not relaxing until Malcolm seems to finally come to some sort of conclusion. 

The prince smiles, just a pull of his lips on one side. “You mean that, don’t you? Without even knowing what I’m going to ask.”

With a simple nod, Gil agrees. “I trust you implicitly, your highness. Even if it weren’t my duty to follow your orders without question, I have faith that anything you have me do would be worthy of my time and effort. And of all people, you would never ask me to do something that would go against our - my ideals and morals.”

Malcolm’s countenance goes from turned in on himself in sorrow to one of acceptance and awe. There’s something else in his gaze that Gil recognizes, but still refuses to acknowledge. If he doesn’t speak it, he can ignore it for now. But still, Malcolm stares, and stands, pulling himself up to his full height (which still isn’t much, and likely will never be) and reaches for Gil, putting a single hand on his arm and squeezing tight.

For a brief moment, Gil feels uncontrolled warmth spread through his body.

Until Malcolm opens his mouth once more and the world turns to ice.

“I need you to help me prevent a murder.”

  
  
  



End file.
